


Leave a Light On

by antiquitea



Category: Duran Duran
Genre: 1980s, 1990s, 2000s, Drug Use, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Musicians, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-06 21:10:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 55,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8769439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antiquitea/pseuds/antiquitea
Summary: For the rest of his life, John would recall every detail of that night with a stunning amount of clarity, right down to the the way the scent of his friend’s cologne filled his nostrils as he pulled him closer. At the time, John didn’t think much of it - the small room was brimming with the scent of sweat, tinged with excitement, beer and whatever else had made its way from the bar into their hands - of what consequence was it that he would, decades later, still remember the way one of his best friends had smelled that night.





	1. 1980s

_Whatever I’ve done to receive,_  
_Whatever I need to redeem,_  
_Whatever you say,  
_ _Even if I wait a lifetime._

 _I know, I swear,_  
_If you leave a light on,_  
_If you leave a light on for me,_  
_I’ll come back.  
_ _You can leave a light on for me …_

.     .     .

 **1980  
** _Birmingham_

He felt equal parts euphoric and as if he might be sick, stomach lodged somewhere in his throat, far from where it belonged.

No one had said anything, as if it hadn’t quite sunk in yet. They’d just played their first full set at Rum Runner, their first full set as (what they all hoped) was the final lineup of Duran Duran. No more revolving doors of guitar players who would inevitably bail, no more auditions for a lead singer - this was it. They hoped.

Silence in the back room, while out in the club the DJ was already playing the latest by Gary Numan. Finally, Andy let out a whooping laugh and the rest of the band followed suit, clapping each other on the back for a job well done. Finally, blissfully, the stillness of the moment was broken, and they were all all at once feeding off one another’s energy. They all knew it, but were all too frightened, too proud, to acknowledge it, lest they jinx it - this was the beginning of something big.

John still felt as if he might be ill, body all but trembling from the rush of adrenaline. But at least now, it was done. First show down, so many more to go. As celebratory drinks were passed around by the Berrows, John looked to Nick, who was situated across the room now cramped with their inner circle, the friend who he’d started all of this with and raised his glass with a slight nod, one which was returned in solidarity. They’d really and truly done it.

The moment with Nick was short lived as Simon draped his arm over John’s shoulder and hauled him closer, planting a kiss to the top of his head. For the rest of his life, John would recall every detail of that night with a stunning amount of clarity, right down to the the way the scent of his friend’s cologne filled his nostrils as he pulled him closer. At the time, John didn’t think much of it - the small room was brimming with the scent of sweat, tinged with excitement, beer and whatever else had made its way from the bar into their hands - of what consequence was it that he would, decades later, still remember the way one of his best friends had smelled that night.

The warm sloshing of alcohol in his stomach helped to quell the feeling of potentially emptying it, and the warmth of Simon’s body kept him anchored in the moment. The older boy seemed reluctant to let go of him, and so there John remained until Simon’s girlfriend inevitably showed up to drag him away.

.     .     .

Andy, Nick, and Roger had long since retired to bed - their own or otherwise - hours previous, whether of their own volition, or having been deposited there by someone else or the drink. John remained up until inevitably kicked out of the club, now idly smoking his way through a pack of cigarettes and plucking at his bass on the rooftop of the Cheapside building where they rehearsed. The air had grown cold, time beginning to segue slowly from the late hours of the night into the early hours of the morning. John couldn’t have slept if he had wanted to, still far too amped from the show, and also not wanting the night to be over. He never wanted this particular night to be over, wanted to revel in how it felt for as long as humanly possible.

Wrapped in a quilt that his mother had sent him packing with when he kind-of-sort-of moved out (though he still didn’t have his own actual place), remnants of the night’s makeup lingered on his face - eyeliner faded and smudged at the corners of his eyelids, lipstick scrubbed off haphazardly - and wearing his least New Romantic clothing in the form of an old sweatshirt and faded jeans, John was content to have these quiet moments to himself before inevitably retiring to bed. Even fledgling rockstars needed their sleep.

The door leading to the rooftop opened with an unceremonious clang, and John practically curled into himself from the sound, only prevented from fully doing so by Simon’s voice.

“We’re only making plans for Nigel,” he sang, body swaying to his own voice as he made his way across the rooftop toward John. “We only want what’s best for him.”

“Ugh,” John groaned, rolling his eyes as Simon plunked down next to him and pulled some of the quilt toward him. “For the love of God, don’t.”

Chuckling, Simon waited until John had set his bass down before handing him a drink. “Been stuck in my head since day one. Can’t help it. Give me credit for waiting this long. Hey,” he said, scowling a little as John began to lift the beer to his lips. “Cheers, mate. We fuckin’ did it.”

The clink of their bottles sounded as if it were the loudest sound in the middle of the still and quiet night. Simon took a pull from his bottle and let out a satisfied sigh, John chugging half of his in the same amount of time. “Yeah, we fuckin’ did,” he finally said, smiling over at his friend. He stifled a yawn into his arm, and blinked blearily. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“Shouldn’t _you_?” Simon retorted, wrapping the quilt around him so that he and John were all but snuggling underneath it. He gave his friend a knowing glance, knowing what was on his mind, knowing that they were thinking the same thing. “Don’t want the night to end,” he finally relented.

“Me either,” John said, taking another drink and looking out toward the horizon, just beginning to brighten slightly with the promise of a new day.

They sat in silence, leaning against one another and drinking their beers, which by all rights should’ve been coffee at that hour. John knew that there would be many more firsts, that this wasn’t the last time that he would feel this way after a show. They still had so much to do, such a long road ahead of them. This was far from the last time, in any sense.

Next to him, he could feel Simon beginning to drift off, supporting more of his weight as Simon leaned against him. He kept startling himself awake, and John didn’t have the heart to tell him to go to bed. Eventually, after rousing himself for the last time, Simon finished the last of his beer and began making as if he were about to leave. As John turned to say goodnight, he caught Simon’s lips with his own. Simon, apparently, had been going in to give John a quick peck on the cheek. John had merely wanted to say goodnight. Both of them too tired and a little too tipsy to rectify the situation immediately. Simon smiled against John’s lips, while John turned an impressive shade of scarlet. Exaggerating the kiss, Simon made a playful “mwuah” sound against John’s lips before pulling away and chuckling, beginning to stand up.

“Don’t stay up too much longer,” he said, replacing the blanket around John’s shoulders and gathering up their empties. “We’ve got rehearsal early in the afternoon. G’night, John Boy.”

And just like that, Simon retreated indoors, leaving John on the rooftop, still a deep shade of red, calloused fingers idly touching his lips.

_Oh, fuck._

.     .     .

John was thankful that he had at least a little bit of time to process the events of the prior evening before seeing Simon again. It wasn’t every day that he found himself beginning to harbour a crush on a friend and bandmate. The more time that he had to mull over the situation, the better. Unfortunately, he couldn’t exactly lock himself away in his room at his folks’ place - it was business as usual at the Rum Runner for him and his bandmates, who held jobs there during the day as a way of earning their keep for the space to jam and rehearse, as well as the honour of being the default house band.

The following day, before they were slated to rehearse at the Cheapside squat, John stumbled from his parents’ place to Nick’s. Wearing sunglasses despite the overcast skies, his head pounding from a few too many drinks the night before, John let himself in to find Nick at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette and looking barely half awake. Saying nothing, John slid into the empty chair on the other side of the table, and carefully pulled his sunglasses off his face, setting them down gently.

“Good night?” Nick asked, voice rough with sleep.

“Yeah,” John replied, cracking open an eye and watching as Nick grabbed the teapot and poured him a cup.

“I thought so too,” Nick added, cigarette dangling from his lips.

The two of them sat in delighted silence for a few moments, nursing their hangovers and replaying the previous evening’s events over in their minds. John reached the package of Nick’s cigarettes on the table and helped himself to one, grabbing the nearby lighter next. He lit it and inhaled deeply letting it fill his lungs before exhaling slowly through his nostrils. Eventually, they both deemed that they’d had enough caffeine and nicotine to carry on with an actual conversation.

“You didn’t come home until late,” Nick observed, chin resting on his hand, raising his eyebrows at John.

“Early is more like it,” John said, taking a pull from his cigarette. “Sun was already up.”

“Ah,” Nick said, the corners of his mouth quirking up into a grin.

“Nothing like that,” John corrected, rubbing at his temple. “I didn’t want the night to end, went to TV Eye. Simon and I hung out on the roof for a bit.” John furrowed his brow, looking out the window across from him that looked out to Nick’s parent’s back garden. “He kissed me.”

Nick choked on the cigarette smoke that he’d inhaled, fingers clutching at his throat for a moment until the coughing had subsided. John sipped his tea casually, waiting for Nick to calm down, and rubbed at his tired eyes.

“Simon _kissed_ you?” Nick asked, still sputtering. “I know that bloke is affectionate, but -”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” John said. “He meant to kiss me on the cheek. I turned to say good night. He caught my lips. It’s nothing.”

Something in John’s tone gave Nick pause. “Oh. It is absolutely _not_ nothing. You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“Nigel -” John cringed. “- you have an atrocious poker face.”

“Do not speak a word of this to _anyone_ ,” John said, pointing a finger at Nick. “It’s really nothing. It was an accidental kiss, and I just sort of fancy him, is all. He’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. It’ll go away in due time.”

“Mmmhmm,” Nick hummed, taking another drag of his cigarette, clearly not believing anything that John had just said.

“It will!” John insisted, flicking the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray in front of Nick. “He’s my friend, and my bandmate. It’ll pass as quickly as it came on.”

“I won’t speak a word of it to anyone,” Nick said. “I promise. But that’s not going to stop me from making fun of you relentlessly for it.”

“I would expect nothing less from you,” John said sardonically, casting a sidelong glance at Nick, accompanied by a slow smile.

It wasn’t an entirely alien notion that he would be attracted to Simon, even if it was just a passing fancy. John had been drawn to him since the first day he’d walked into the Rum Runner to audition for the band. There had been an air about him that was impossible not to get drawn in by - he was the perfect frontman. John suspected that there were few people who _weren’t_ drawn to Simon in some capacity. He was talented, intelligent, attractive, energetic, affable, and impossible to dislike. He hadn’t known everyone in the band as long as they had known one another. It wasn’t odd for John to have a bit of a crush on someone who had newly entered his life. That was normal. A normal thing that occurred to a lot of people, he was sure.

 _Just a passing fancy._ That’s all that it was.

.     .     .

 **1982  
** _New York_

They’d been to New York before, not quite like this. The first time had been back in `81, when they were just beginning to make it, the fans in North America just starting to accumulate. They were still doing club shows, but the clubs were getting larger, and theatres were also starting to find their way into the repertoire. Chance wasn’t Madison Square Garden, but one day, it would be.

Checked into a hotel that they would barely spend any time in, Simon flopped onto his bed and letting out a long groan. The trek from New Jersey hadn’t exactly been long or trying, and they still had a laundry list of shows left to do that summer, but it didn’t stop a bloke from being tired.

Simon lifted his head, and propped his chin on his hand, watching as John fumbled his way into their shared accommodations, wrestling with an armful of luggage. John nodded a hello and attempted to kick the door closed, only to have one of his bags fall onto the floor. Simon stifled a chuckle, and John cursed, though he shook his head and laughed a little.

“It’s okay, Charlie. I’ve got it,” he teased, kicking a dropped duffle bag across the floor so that it was sitting by his bed.

“You’re managing just fine,” Simon said, moving to sit up as John dropped the last of his bags onto the floor.

“And just why exactly did you rush off?” John asked, sitting on the edge of his bed and fishing in his pockets for his cigarettes and a lighter.

“Wanted the better bed,” Simon replied, bouncing slightly on his bed, making a face when he heard the springs creak. “Ooh, might’ve made the wrong call.”

“Didn’t test them both out first?” John asked, placing a cigarette between his lips. “Amateur. You’ll never get the better bed so long as we’re bunking together if you keep pulling shit like that.” As if to make a point, John bounced slightly on his own bed - no creaking springs. “Mmm,” he purred, raising his eyebrows. “Perfect. Could shag a lovely American girl in here with you sleeping and you’d be none the wiser.”

Simon scoffed, pushing his hair away from his eyes and standing up. “Please. We all know you’re not capable of being quiet when you’re shagging a bird.”

John was about to act indignant and ask how exactly people knew, then reconsidered it. Simon’s statement alone was response enough. He had the decency and bow his head to blush, but that didn’t stop Simon from letting out a knowing chuckle. Bringing his lighter to his lips, John was shocked to find it plucked from his fingers and lifted his head quickly, the word “hey,” forming on his tongue, only to have his cigarette removed as well.

“Fucking - ” he was able to get out, before Simon playfully knocked him over and clamoured onto the bed, jumping on it.

“Creaks a little!” he declared, getting a kick out of John’s absolutely scandalized look. “If you really lay into her -”

Simon let out a squawk as John tackled him at the knees, knocking him down onto the bed. “No, no, no!” Simon laughed, attempting to swat John’s hands away, whether the younger man was moving to pummel or tickle him, he didn’t know, but either way he wanted no part of it.

Their room wouldn’t be properly christened without some manner of rough housing.

He managed to grab at John’s wrists, bony things he could wrap his entire hands around, and shove him backwards. John made a surprised noise, but was biting back laughter and not having much success. It came down to a matter of strength, and though John put up a good fight, Simon was able to successfully push him away, getting him onto his back on the bed. Practically cackling with laughter, John made an attempt to get up and push Simon away, but was unsuccessful on both fronts. Simon pinned him down, wrists above his head. John swept one of legs under Simon’s body, causing him to tumble, though he didn’t let go of John’s wrists as he fell onto him.

Air rushed out of him, and Simon was trying to muffle his laughter in the bedspread beneath them. Eventually, once Simon’s laughter had subsided, he pushed himself up, looking down to find John in the same boat, chuckling still, a glow flush across his cheeks. He let go of John’s wrists and bent his head down, giving him a quick peck on the forehead before moving to sit up.

John’s breathing hitched.

Simon pulled away and sat up, trying to figure out what exactly had just happened. Something in the room had changed, and though he knew, really and truly knew what it was, far be it from his dumb brain to actually try and bring logic into the situation.

Oh.

John sat up slowly, propping himself up on his hands, their legs still intertwined. He met Simon’s eyes, and in a moment so much became so abundantly clear.

_Oh._

“Well, fuck,” Simon whispered, eyes flickering from John’s to his lips. So much was obvious in that moment, but most of all was the fact that this clearly wasn’t a recent development. “When?"

The silence and the knowing lingered between them. John shifted, not meeting Simon’s eyes at first, as if he’d been caught in a terrible lie. Simon could see that he was uncomfortable, and wanted nothing more than to alleviate the situation in some way, to let John know that it was okay, that he wasn’t mad. Fuck, why the hell would he be mad? Confused? Yes. Mad? Never.

“The night of our first show,” John replied, after a moment of trying to find his voice. “We were on the rooftop together. Remember? I went to say goodnight, you went in to kiss my cheek. You tried to play it off, I tried to forget how much I enjoyed it.”

Simon wasn’t going to act like a part of him hadn’t always known, but he felt especially horrible in that moment. How many times had he playfully kissed John on stage? How many times had he been messing around with his friend when his friend wanted it to be real?

“I remember,” Simon acknowledged softly, almost afraid to speak any louder. “Why didn’t you -"

“Say anything?” John finished. “Don’t know. Figured it would go away. Hasn’t.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

A year. A fucking _year_ his friend had been longing for him (in some capacity), and he’d refused to act, and even worse, he’d refused to acknowledge it. Simon felt awful, and also felt like he had no idea what he was supposed to say, do, or feel. Perhaps not a recent development for John, but it was for him. Worst of all, John was looking at him like his heart was slowly deflating inside his chest. Attempting to find something, anything, to say that might alleviate the tension in the room, there was a knock on the door, and Simon leapt up from the bed.

Not his proudest moment.

“Sound check in forty!” came Paul’s voice from the other side of the door. “Lobby in ten!”

“Right!” Simon replied, scratching at the back of his neck. He looked back to John, who looked equal parts dejected and relieved. What were they going to do about this? Simon opened his mouth to say something, _anything_ , but John held up a hands as he got up from the bed.

“Don’t worry about it, Charlie,” he said. “It’s nothing.”

Simon knew full well that this _was not fucking nothing._

.     .     .

Whatever awkwardness had transpired in their hotel room was not visible from the crowd, even if both John and Simon were acutely aware of it. Simon tried to act as if he hadn’t found out hours before that his friend had been harbouring a year long crush on him, giving the crowd the show that they wanted, with lots of banter, and playful flirting with both John and Andy as they played. Simon didn’t know what was on John’s mind with any degree of certainty, but it didn’t take a scientist to deduce that there was something bothering him, even if no one else truly saw it.

The screaming girls in the front row suspected nothing was any different as Simon sang _Hungry Like the Wolf_ , stalking toward John as if the other man were his prey. The two of them locked eyes, and Simon wished he had known how many times they’d done this playful act before on stage - Simon acting like he wanted to ravish John until he was breathless and left wanting, John wishing that he actually would.

 _Straddle the line in discord and rhyme,_  
_I'm on a hunt down after you._  
_Mouth is alive with juices like wine,  
_ _And I'm hungry like the wolf!_

When Simon reached John on stage, meeting his eyes, John acted as he always did, fingers plucking away at chords on his bass, meeting Simon’s gaze as if coaxing him, willing him to do something more, while Simon gyrated his hips against John’s thigh. The crowd ate it up, and in that moment Simon almost loathed them. If only they knew how it felt to essentially tease his friend with something that he clearly wanted. Simon didn’t begrudge them, their stage antics were included in the price of admission. All the same, he hoped that John knew that they weren’t finished discussing matters of the heart, only that they were put on hold to give the audience the show that they wanted.

As Simon moved away from John and back to the center of the stage, he reached up and stroked the backs of his fingers across John’s cheek. He thought that he felt John shudder, until he realized it had been him.

 _Stalked in the forest too close to hide,  
_ _I'll be upon you by the moonlight side ..._

.     .     .

The soundcheck distant memory, the show long over, celebratory drinks and joints consumed, the band returned to the hotel, eager to get some sleep before packing up in the ungodly hours of the morning and moving onto the next state. At least, sleep is what they should’ve been getting. Simon couldn’t comment on anyone else, but he knew that he was laying on his back, eyes wide, staring straight up at the ceiling.

The day’s earlier revelation with John was still weighing on his mind, and while he’d tried not to let it play into his performance earlier, he couldn’t deny that he’d missed a few cues during the concert, or that his eyes lingered on John for prolonged periods of time. It made him irrationally angry that John had had a year to figure all of this out, while Simon was just realizing it now.

Realizing _what_ exactly?

Rolling over onto his side, he faced John’s bed, and sighed loudly, thankful that John wasn’t mirroring his position, and was instead passed out on his stomach, snoring into his pillow. It’s not as if he was _in love_ with John. Sure, he _loved_ him, in the sense that one loved a best friend, a brother. He wasn’t going to deny it, though - a small part of him wondered what it might be like. To love John that way, to be _with_ John.

The first time Simon saw John he was this spectacled geek with nicotine-stained fingers, trembling with fear at the prospect of having to meet people. He remembered staring at his face and slowly realising that he was rather beautiful, exquisite in fact. John was easily the best looking guy he’d seen in years, maybe his whole life.

Did any relationship start off the same?

Sure, but what made it different here that John was his bandmate, his friend. One didn’t mess around with that, not when you already had a good thing going. Besides, John’s feelings were more important that his own curiosity. It was very clear that John had feelings for him in some way, and had for a long time. He couldn’t do that to someone he loved.

_Fuck._

Sighing loudly, Simon flopped onto his back to resume staring up at the ceiling and having an existential crisis. He glanced over toward John’s bed again, to find him sitting up, back to Simon, legs swung over the side, feet planted on the floor, looking out the window.

“Can’t sleep?” Simon asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

“No,” John replied, his voice sounding as exhausted as his slumped shoulders made him look. “You?”

“Not even a little bit,” Simon replied, sitting up as well. He ran his hands over his face, knowing that he was so much more eloquent than all of this, and wishing that his words weren’t failing him as they were in that moment. “John, I -”

“Simon, it’s okay. It’s not a big deal. You don’t have to turn this into _a thing_ ,” John said. “To be honest, I’d be quiet content if you just went back to being oblivious about the fact that I may or may not have a crush on you.” He looked over his shoulder to Simon, though Simon couldn’t see the look on his face, shadows cast across them, could only see the silhouette of John’s features. God, he was beautiful.  “Can we … just forget about this afternoon?”

Unsure if he should be relieved at being let off the hook, or offended that John think so little of himself and his own feelings, Simon opted for the latter. He was already preparing some manner of long, far-too-late-in-the-night-for-this kind of speech when he threw the covers off himself and got up from his bed. Making his way over to John’s, he couldn’t ignore the electricity in the air, the unknowing and the wanting hanging between them growing as the space between them shrank. Simon sat next to John, the bed dipping beneath their weight, creaking slightly. John looked like he was preparing himself for a stern talking to as Simon looked at him, and it was in that precise moment that Simon figured it all out.

The answer had been right in front of him all along.

After a deep breath, Simon finally replied, “No,” and deftly closed the space between them before any of John’s protests could be heard.

.     .     .

 **1983  
** _Valbonne_

Looking out the window, John smoked the last of his cigarettes, making a mental note to ask someone to go get some more for him. Or, he could simply rifle through any number of bags or pockets belonging to the rest of the band and inevitably come away with some more. Cigarettes and booze were easy to come upon lately. Cocaine not so much, but he could wait a little while longer. He exhaled through his nose, tendrils of smoke framing his face, making his view of the estate that they found themselves holed up in to put their third album together hazy. Leaning against the windowpane, John shoved his hand in the pocket of his trousers, and turned to look from the picturesque view of Valbonne to the bed in the middle of the room.

Simon lay there, body bathed in the warm, early morning sunlight creeping into the room, bed sheets tangled around his legs, still half asleep, notebook propped against his knees, joint in one hand and pen in the other. Feeling eyes on him, he glanced over at John and stuck his tongue out at him, before returning to his task. Smiling, John finished his cigarette and stubbed out the embers in a nearby ashtray, making his way back over to his bed and making his way under the covers.

“Are you even capable of coherent thought this early?” John asked, as Simon lifted his arm to make room for John to warm his way next to him.

“Barely,” Simon replied, voice hoarse from too much sleep and not any coffee or tea. He ducked his head down, attempting to kiss John on the forehead but got a mouthful of his fringe instead. He brushed it away with his pen-brandishing hand, and John let out a contented hum as Simon’s mouth found his warm skin. “Been up long?”

“Long enough,” John replied. The reality was that he’d barely slept, having been out until late in the morning with Andy at some club, doing lines of coke off a mirror with people he barely knew and hangers-on.

“Nigel code for a late night and an early morning,” Simon said with a degree of sympathetic introspection.

“Don’t,” John said, attempting to alleviate the situation. Mornings rarely got off to a good start when Simon made reference to the fact that John had done something stupid - which was lately more often than either of them cared for.

“Don’t what?” Simon asked, writing something down in his notebook and then crossing it out. “Call you Nigel or call you out?”

“Either. Both.” John loathed starting their mornings like this. He much prefered that they start them how they used to - with lazy kissing that usually turned into lazy bending and bowing toward one another until spent, eventually rising for coffee, breakfast, soundchecks, or all of the above. Mornings that started with disagreements, arguments, or full out fights often meant that the nights would end the same. “Can we start over?”

“I’m far too comfortable to let you up now,” Simon replied, casting a look down at John and a sardonic smile, which eventually turned into one full of kindness. Simon’s greatest fault, John had discovered, was that he couldn’t stay mad at him for long. This didn’t bode well for either of them, and they both knew it. John didn’t need to be enabled any further, least of all by Simon.

Letting out a soft “harumph,” Simon closed his notebook and reached over to place it on the nightstand along with his pen, clearly intent on giving John his full attention. Simon had gotten what was easily one of the best rooms in the chateau, while John had been stuck with a room barely larger than the single bed that occupied it, his own fault for arriving last. It bothered him at first, until it became apparent that Simon didn’t intend on allowing John to sleep anywhere else. What remained of Simon’s joint was passed over to John, who took a pull of it and then reached over to set it on the ashtray. Joint disposed of, Simon hauled John closer and kissed him at the juncture where jaw and ear met, before continuing a path along his jaw.

John much preferred this over trading jabs.

He tipped his head back and sighed, Simon pushing John onto his back and covering his body with his own. Simon was already divesting him of his trousers, fingers grazing over bony hips, which John lifted from the bed in an attempt to aid Simon’s quest. Simon’s breathing was already laboured, which meant to John that he’d been wanting this for a while, and John couldn’t remember the last time they’d been together, short of stolen kisses played off as mucking around while recording downstairs. It had quite possibly been before Valbonne, which was far too long for his liking, and Simon’s as well he was sure.

The chateau was quiet - clearly no one else was up yet. Not as if that had stopped them before. It was something of an unspoken acknowledgement within the rest of the band and their inner circle - no one talked about the fact that their lead singer and bass player occasionally made out and shared the same bed. Neither of them talked about it with anyone else, which they both agreed wasn’t healthy, but there were appearances to keep up. And it was far easier to keep up appearances when no one was any wiser in an official capacity.

The only words that had been spoken about it were between John and Nick. John couldn’t keep anything from his oldest friend, and Nick was far too intelligent to not see all of the signs. It was during a rehearsal, when from behind his keyboards Nick noticed John’s lingering gaze on Simon. Afterward, Nick had simply pulled John aside and asked, “You and Simon?” John had replied, “Sometimes. It’s nothing terribly official,” and that was the end of it.

One could easily deduce that they’d spent the better part of the year fucking, but it wouldn’t be entirely true. Both of them too afraid to go that far, they’d settled for tongues licking into one another’s mouths, rushed handjobs backstage, blowjobs that they both wanted to last longer but never did, and rutting against one another like the teenagers they no longer were.

Both too afraid to go that far, both too stupid to actually bring it up with the other.

Rid of his trousers, John intertwined his legs with Simon’s, letting out a breathy sigh as Simon grazed teeth along his throat, his collarbone. Simon dragged blunt fingernails down the side of John’s body, causing him to squirm slightly, the sensation as ticklish as it was wonderful. John’s breathing hitched when he felt Simon’s growing hardness bumping against his hip, his own cock responding in kind. Though it was never surprising, it never failed to thrill him. That he, of all the millions of people in the world, could be the one to get this reaction from Simon, to be the one to make him feel this good.

Here, wrapped around one another as the sun rose in Valbonne was absolutely perfect, and there was nowhere else that John would rather be.

John tangled his fingers in Simon’s hair, pulling his head higher from attacking his neck with kisses so that he could kiss his mouth. They’d already gone far beyond the point of the slow, gentle kisses that they usually allowed themselves, eventually working their way up to a fevered pitch. But John knew that they were both too far gone already, delving his tongue into Simon’s mouth, eliciting a soft gasp from the man on top of him, pressing closer in response.

He forgot about the band, he forgot about the album in dire need of being completed, he forgot about the fame, he forgot about his next fix - he forgot about everything. His whole world narrowed down to Simon whenever they were together, and he wanted to feel like this always, but they’d both agreed, without ever talking about it, that this was nothing serious, that this wasn’t official. Whatever they were, John didn’t know. What he did know was that no one could make him feel as good as Simon did, and he might give it all up if he could only have one or the other.

John was brought back to reality by Simon nibbling on his ear, the bastard. Simon had discovered long ago that getting John to submit to damn near anything was just an ear nibble away. He wrapped a leg around Simon’s waist, trying to pull him closer, wanting to just be a little bit closer. The weight of Simon on top of him pressed them further into the mattress beneath them, and John turned his head slightly to whisper in Simon’s ear.

“Simon,” John rasped, arching up off the bed, resting his hand at the nape of Simon’s neck. “Fuck me?”

He hadn’t expected to come out so pleadingly, but there it was. Simon stilled, and John wondered if he’d ruined it. They didn’t talk about it, what they were doing. They just did it. It was quite possible that Simon hadn’t wanted to go any further than this. If John wanted something that he didn’t, would that be the time to call it quits, to lavish all of his attention on his Claire?

“Yeah,” Simon whispered against John’s neck, not relenting at all at the attention that he was lavishing on his friend. “Yeah. Okay.”

Non-committal as it sounded, John knew that Simon was sufficiently riled up. Normally eloquent and verbose, it didn’t take a genius to know that reducing Simon to one word responses was a sign of something really good, or really bad. In this case, John knew it was the former. Or at least, he hoped that it was.

“Yeah?” John asked, as Simon trailed soft hands over his chest, almost disbelieving. “You - you want to?”

Simon pulled back slightly, and upon seeing his face, the look in his eyes, John knew that it was foolish to have even asked. Pupils blown, eyelids heavy, flush on his cheeks, and full lips parted, Simon was the epitome of turned on if John had ever seen it. Their fooling around had often been hurried and desperate, with not much time for sentiment or tenderness, though there were a few instances of it. But there was no comparison, this was the most tender that John had ever seen Simon look at him, and the implication of that frightened him more than the prospect of fucking.

“I want this,” Simon answered, kissing at John’s bottom lip, trying to get closer. “Do you?”

“Yes,” John replied without hesitation, breathless, tilting his head up toward Simon’s lips. His hands moved down the plane of Simon’s back until they rested on his ass. “I want this. Fuck me. Don’t make me beg.”

“Some other time,” Simon said, a smirk gracing with lips, John’s cock twitching at the mere thought of whenever that “some other time” may be.

The mechanics of sex with another man wasn’t something that John had spent a lot of his time looking into, neither in his youth or recently. When he was a teenager, it wasn’t exactly on his list of priorities. Since his trysts with Simon began, he wasn’t exactly sure it would ever lead to this. And even if he had, he wouldn’t have known the first place to go, or the first person to talk to about how it was supposed to work. Who would he even -

“You’re thinking too much,” Simon rasped, thumb grazing over one of John’s nipples, interrupting his thoughts, and not a moment too soon.

John gasped, and arched toward the touch, smiling sheepishly. “I was just thinking that I don’t … I don’t have any idea what -”

“It’s okay,” Simon interrupted. “I know.”

“How in the blood he -”

“Can we discuss how I know what to do later and right now concentrate on us fucking?” Simon asked, almost exasperatedly but with a faint laugh. He reached out and smoothed John’s bangs off his forehead, away from his eyes, though they fell relatively back into place seconds later. “I want to make you feel good. Will you let me?”

John inhaled deeply and nodded, licking at his lips as Simon moved to kneel above him. God. he was gorgeous. Body tanned from sunning while shooting videos for their last album, blond hair almost shining in the morning light, cock curving up toward his stomach. Placing his hands on Simon’s thighs, John dragged blunt fingernails against his skin, causing the man above him to squirm a little, reaching down to playfully bat at his hands.

“Do you trust me?” Simon asked, lacing his fingers with John’s.

John couldn’t believe that Simon was even asking him that. There were few people he trusted more than Simon. “I do,” he replied, tugging one of Simon’s hands toward his, brushing his lips against the backs on knuckles. “C’mon, Charlie. I want you.”

That was all that Simon needed to hear. He grabbed John’s hip and squeezed, nudging at him slightly. “Roll over.”

.     .     .

He’d fucked it all up. In true John Taylor fashion, he’d fucked it all up.

It hadn’t been instantaneous, but it rarely ever was. There was sort of an ebb and flow to it all, and he was never one to rush things, a bit of a perfectionist and wanting to ensure that he always put his best work forward. Even when it came to being a colossal fuck up in matters of the heart.

Building a relationship, whatever kind of relationship it was, with Simon had taken a year. Ruining it had taken all of a week.

After Simon had fucked him within an inch of his life, John tried his best not to grow distant, but it happened anyway. When they were just fooling around he could lie to himself, pretend that he wasn’t getting in too deep, that what had started off as a crush had simply evolved into two friends who loved one another getting frisky once in awhile. But once they rolled around in bed together, John with his face pressed into the pillows, biting them to keep from crying out too loudly, fingers tearing into the mattress, John’s heart felt far too full. It didn’t help matters any that Simon had groaned into the nape of John’s neck that he loved him, even if John pretended not to hear it, and Simon pretended not to have said it.

John became elusive.

Most evenings, after trying to piece together music with the band, he would grab Andy, who was always down to party, and drag him to the first club they could find where they could skip the line. But it was always the same, no matter which club they’d go to. Go to the VIP, flirt with some girls, drink too much liquor, do too many white lines, end up back at the chateau with no recollection of how he got there.

Simon, to his credit, let John burn the candle at both ends for a few days, before eventually coming between him and his clubbing - literally. Simon stood in the doorway of his closet-sized room, refusing to let him leave.

“C’mon, Charlie,” John said, trying to push past him.

“Why?” Simon asked, cocking his head to the side slightly. “So you can come back here all strung out and useless for tomorrow? No. You’ve been going out every night since …” Simon trailed off, not finding himself able to put into words what had transpired between them nights before. “You’re not going out tonight, Johnny. You look like hell, and you’re fuckin’ useless the morning after.”

John laughed ruefully, turning his gaze from Simon. “You’re not my bloody father, mate.”

“No. But I _am_ your friend.”

Inhaling deeply, John bit down on his bottom lip. He couldn’t deal with this right now. It was getting to become too much, too real. It had been fine before, what had changed? He slept with anonymous women all of the time, what made sleeping with Simon any different?

Maybe the fact that he’d been nuts about him for years, maybe that it was becoming quite clear that Simon felt the same way about him. John couldn’t put his finger on it, probably couldn’t if he tried, his brain a mix of contradictions that made him want to scream.

He didn’t want to be alone, he wanted to be happy. He wanted Simon, to be with him in whatever capacity that they were able to. But not like this.

_How then?_

_I don’t know._

“You said that you loved me,” John said, finally looking back at Simon.

Clearly also not one for talking about what he was feeling, it was Simon’s turn to break eye contact. “Heat of the moment, Johnny. You’re not the first I’ve said it to. You won’t be the last.”

Okay, that hurt. Even if John didn’t think for a second that it was true. Whatever they had, it had been going so great right up until they fucked. Would they have been better off if they hadn’t? John knew that this was all his doing - he was trying to push Simon away, even if he didn’t really want to. But there was no stopping it now, the wheels set in motion to put the brakes on whatever this was.

“Oh, really?” John asked, raising an eyebrow. “We spent a year doing - what, exactly? Being friends who went at it when there were no women around? If it didn’t mean anything to you, why did you let it go on this fucking long?”

“Fuck’s sake, John,” Simon said, huffing and rolling his eyes. “Are you trying to push me away? Is that what this is? Give me some fuckin’ credit. If you don’t think I don’t know about the games that you play after knowing you for three years you’re fuckin’ foolin’ yourself.”

“I’m not _trying_ to push you away!” John said, his voice raising. “I _am_ pushing you away! It’s too much, Simon. I don’t - I can’t be whatever the fuck it is that you want me to be right now.”

“I’m not asking for your bloody hand in marriage,” Simon said.

“Then what are you asking for?” John retaliated. “It was all fine before we fucked, and now -”

“Now what?” Simon asked, taking a step toward John. “ _Now what_ ? You have an idea of how much I actually care about you? If admitting it is what it takes to stop you from being a bloody child, then yes. I do love you. I love you as a bandmate, as a friend, and whatever _this_ between us is. I care about you too much to watch you do this stupid shit to yourself day in and day out. Maybe everyone else is happy to ignore it, but I’m not. I don’t know what _this_ is, John. But I’m not going to lie to myself anymore. I care about you. I love you.”

Silence hung in the air between them, in a way that it hadn’t since the day that Simon had first pieced together how John felt about him. Simon was the king of wearing his heart on his sleeve, John knew months ago that Simon was falling for him, if he hadn’t already. In recent months it was so apparent that they were both crazy about each other, and though John tried to tell himself not to be afraid of it, he was.

John, unable to keep the words from tumbling out past his lips, regretted them as soon as he said them. “But I don’t care about you! I don’t love you!”

There was no turning back from that.

Simon said nothing, merely stepped away from the door and gestured toward it. John, too furious at himself, didn’t stick around, stormed out of the room and out of the chateau, and into whatever awaited him in the night.

The following afternoon, it was band business as usual - with John trying to get through the monster of all hangovers without vomiting into a wastebasket more than once, and the band working through some songs. John would’ve kept himself from meeting Simon’s eyes, if it weren’t apparent that Simon was doing his best to act like he didn’t care, which John knew was not at all the case. If the rest of the band picked up on the new tension between their singer and bassist, they didn’t let on. John wanted to make things better somehow, get them back to how they were, but it was too far gone. He’d fucked it up, as always.

The basis for some new songs had already been created, but one that Simon introduced lyrics for that morning was new. Face red with shame, John idly plucked at the strings on his bass, looking at the floor, out the window, anywhere but at his now ex-lover.

 _Why did you let me run,_  
_When you knew I'd fall for the gaping hole,_  
_Where your heart should be?_  
_Liar - couldn't cut me deeper with a knife if you tried._  
_Just take a look before you run off and hide,  
_ _At your victim arise …_

.     .     .

 **1984  
** _Toronto_

It had been a first for them - performing a concert and filming a music video at the same time. There was an added level of exhaustion on top of two already tiring and occasionally stressful events, but it only served to energize Simon further. Though in the past a successful show and a successful music video shoot would warrant a celebration of some sort, the two combined, along with a tour that was still ongoing meant that any partying done would have to be subdued.

Subdued for Duran Duran still meant a party in the penthouse suite of whatever hotel they were staying in.

Claire was distant that evening, which was just as well, as Simon was quickly trying to figure out the best possible way to break up with her. There was no graceful way to end an engagement with one’s fiancée, but they both knew that it was coming, even if they were reluctant to admit it. It wasn’t just that evening Claire was distant, it was most evenings, along with most mornings, afternoons, and nights. And Simon would have been remiss to not admit that he’d had his eyes on someone else.

Across the room, Simon’s eyes fell on John, glass of vodka in one hand, cigarette in the other, laughing at something that Nick had said. In the year since their falling out they’d become close again, but only as friends and bandmates. Whatever had been building for two years between them had been effectively snuffed out in the chateau in Valbonne. But that didn’t stop Simon from wondering, nor did it stop him from wishing that things had gone a little differently. Far be it from him to get between John and one of his tantrums. It was clearly better this way.

There had been a tension between them since then, one that neither of them could escape no matter how hard they tried. Destined to be nothing more than friends, wanting so much more.

John broke away from Nick, and caught Simon’s eyes as he took a drag from his cigarette. Nights before, this glance would mean that they should find some place where they could be alone. Now, it was nothing more than just that - a glance.

Claire’s attention was stolen by Mike Berrows, and Simon excused himself to make his way across the room to John, who stood rooted in his spot, as if waiting for him. There was a song and dance to their relationship now, one that they couldn’t afford to alter. Too much was relying on them to be not just civil, but friendly. It wasn’t at all an act, but neither of them were being true to themselves or the other.

“Oi, Charlie!” John said, wrapping an arm around Simon and hauling him in close, planting a messy kiss on his cheek. “Russell says he’s gonna have a _fuckin’ wave_ come out of the screen in the video. Do you believe that?”

The world narrowed to just John, who was well on his way to getting completely sloshed that night. His girlfriend, Janine, wasn’t in town with them, which usually meant a more pleasantly intoxicated John instead of a hostile one. No hotel furniture would end up mysteriously broken, no holes appearing in any of the walls.

It could be difficult to be around John like this, who was affectionate and tactile. As in their past, they hadn’t actually discussed anything, but there was an unspoken agreement that what had happened in the past between them was to remain there. But, that didn’t stop John from flirting with him in moments like this. In a crowded room, pressed close together so that they could hear one another, John’s fingers touching Simon just about everywhere, his eyes dark behind his fringe, teeth biting at his lips.

“Fresh air?” Simon suggested after a few minutes, glancing around the room for the exit to the balcony.

John traded his empty glass of vodka for a full one, and followed Simon to the doors leading to the balcony, already opened to let the cool Canadian air into a room that was sweltering with all of the bodies inside of it.

Outside, John breathed in an exaggerated fashion, marvelling at the cloud of air that rose to the sky. Simon leaned against the balcony and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from inside his jacket pocket, offering one to John who’s flicked the burnt out butt of his own onto the street below.

“You do it yet?” John asked, leaning forward as Simon offered his lighter.

“Do what?” Simon asked, raising an eyebrow as John pulled back, glowing embers from the end of his cigarette illuminating his face.

“End things with Claire,” John replied, cocking his head toward the penthouse. “Writing’s on the wall, mate.” Simon had the decency to look shocked, but knew that it wasn’t particularly a secret. “You need to stop wearing your heart on your sleeve.”

“You need to shut up,” Simon said, chuckling ruefully as he lit his own cigarette. He took a long drag of it and exhaled the smoke out through his nostrils with a loud sigh. “No, I haven’t. I know that I need to. But I can’t do it.”

John made a “hmm” sound in the back of his throat, and propped his arms up on the railing, cigarette dangling from his lips. Simon glanced over at him, just wanting to drink in the sight of him for a moment. They weren’t afforded quiet moments often - any of them. The whole world seemed to be swept up in Duran Duran mania, and they couldn’t escape it. They had to take their peace where they could, and right now, on a balcony in Toronto with his friend late at night seemed like the best possible place for Simon.

“Can I ask you a question?” Simon asked after a moment, watching as John smoked his cigarette slowly, as if savouring every hit of nicotine to his system.

“Yeah,” John replied, swapping his cigarette for a drink of vodka.

“In Valbonne,” Simon began, waiting for John to tense or react in a way that implied that he didn’t want to have this conversation, but he didn’t, “what happened?”

“You gotta be more specific,” John chuckled, scratching at his chin with his thumb. “A lot of shit happened in Valbonne. Most of which, to be honest, I have difficulty remembering.”

“I meant with us.”

John sighed, mirth suddenly removed from his face. He took a drag from his cigarette and huffed the smoke out past his lips, looking down into his glass of vodka. From just the look on his face, Simon could tell that he’d dredged up something that John had no intention of dealing with. That is, until Simon brought it up. They never talked about anything, at least nothing pertaining to them, what had been and what could have been. They both subscribed to the notion that British men absolutely did not talk about their feelings. At Claire’s instance it was something that Simon was trying to get better at. Pity for her that he tried it with John before he tried it with her, and it had failed spectacularly.

“I dunno, Charlie,” John said softly, voice barely above a whisper, still not making eye contact. “I know it was only a year ago, but it feels like ages have passed since then. I don’t remember what I was thinking. Couldn’t tell you then, either. Too high all the fuckin’ time.” That was not something that had changed, but only had gotten worse. Simon bit his lip and decided it was best not to press the issue. “It was too much.”

“That’s what you said then,” Simon said, flicking ash from the end of his cigarette off the edge of the balcony and onto the street below. “Is that what you’re saying now?”

John looked over at Simon, and there was a sadness there that Simon hadn’t recalled ever seeing before. “Yeah, Yeah, I am,” John finally replied. “I can’t do that. I can’t do _this_. I feel ...” He trailed off, turning toward Simon and gesturing to himself with both hands, vodka splashing over the rim of his glass, ash scattering across his shirt. “I feel too much.”

In John’s inebriated state, Simon knew that was the most that he was going to get out of him. Intoxication aside, Simon knew that was the most that he might get out of John _ever_. “Yeah,” he said, casting what remained of his cigarette over the balcony. “I get it.”

Simon had no idea what he’d asked John out here for. If nothing else, he just wanted a few moments alone with him. They were never alone together anymore. In the beginning, it was probably for the best. But now, Simon just missed his friend, missed Johnny. He wanted answers to questions he was scared to ask, wanted answers that he knew that John would likely take to his grave.

“Charlie,” John said, stepping closer to Simon. “It’s too much,” he said, for what felt like the umpteenth time to Simon. “But, I can’t. I can’t stop it.” Cigarette still between his fingers, he reached up his hand, gently touching along Simon’s jaw. The sensation caused him to shiver, and John was pressed against him, sensing his friend’s reaction as an invitation. Intent on seemingly speaking in three word sentences that both told Simon nothing and everything, John added, “I feel too much. I want it. I miss you.”

Simon inhaled sharply, dipping his head down as John tilted his up toward him. It was foolish, in full view of anyone at the party who could just happen to look outside, but Simon didn’t care. He captured John’s lips with his own, letting out a pained sigh. A year since he’d kissed John, and it had been a year that he had longed for it. John whimpered - fucking _whimpered_ \- and Simon grabbed at his arms, pulling him closer. John dropped his glass of vodka, and wrapped his arms around Simon, casting his half finished cigarette away from them. The sound of the breaking glass was likely to attract some attention, and almost immediately Simon pulled John toward the darkness, just beyond the opened doors. There, in the shadows, Simon felt invincible, and pushed John against the brick exterior of the hotel, their lips never parted for a moment. When he did eventually pull back, he could just barely make out John’s face, the light from the party casting shadows over his cheekbones. John reached up and tangled his fingers in Simon’s hair, and Simon pressed him harder against the wall, kissing at his neck, inhaling the scent of him.

“Johnny,” he gasped, John’s body tilting toward his.

“Yes,” John rasped, tipping his head back with a hard _thunk_ , giving Simon better access to the expanse of his throat.

The tension of the past year had built up to this moment, and John had been right, it was too much. Mouths and hands everywhere, reacquainting themselves with bodies they’d both not forgotten but hadn’t touched, had longed to touch. They’d never played with fire so much, acting as if they wanted to get caught. Just to their right, the opened doors to the party remained, and all it would take was one person to come outside for a breath of air, to catch sight of them. Nothing would be said of it if it were the right person to see them, but that number was limited to three, and there were far more than three people inside.

John grabbed at Simon’s wrist, and for a moment Simon thought that John might ask him to stop, push him away. He would stop if John asked it of him, but he didn’t want to, figured he was not above begging John to just let him kiss and touch him for just a little while longer. But John didn’t ask him to stop, he didn’t say anything as Simon met his gaze. Without breaking eye contact, John drew Simon’s hand between his legs, and Simon practically growled upon feeling the curve of John’s hardening cock through his trousers.

“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny,” Simon groaned, pressing closer to him.

John smirked, clearly knowing the power that he possessed over Simon, leaning in and kissing at his throat. “I've missed you,” he rasped. “So bloody much. Do you feel how much I've missed you?”

Simon couldn’t help himself from giving John a squeeze through his trousers, just the way that he remembered that he liked it. John sighed, hips tilting toward Simon’s touch, wanting so much more than he was getting.

“We can’t,” Simon breathed as John trailed a series of kisses along his jaw.

He may have been foolish enough to kiss his friend in full view of the party, but he wasn't about to give him a handjob on the balcony, no matter how badly he wanted to. Confusing as it may have been whenever John told him that it was too much, Simon knew exactly what he meant. Simon’s own heart was far too full of feeling when it came to John, barely contained emotion threatening to bubble up past the boiling point whenever they were near one another. How they managed to deny it for this long, Simon didn't know. Sheer stubbornness, he supposed.

“I know. I know,” John whispered, breath huffing gently against his ear as John ground himself against Simon’s palm. “Take me somewhere. Anywhere. I fuckin’ need you.”

Simon was more than happy to comply.

.     .     .

John’s hotel room was dark, save for the light of the moon and streetlights spilling in, illuminating the edges of furniture and objects enough so that they didn't crash into them as they stumbled around. It wouldn't have mattered much as they didn't end up far, falling onto the floor together a few feet from the door and many feet from the bed, a tangle of limbs and half removed clothing. They had no need of knowledge where furniture in the room was, only seeking out one another, the lines of each of their bodies committed to the other man’s muscle memory.

Simon knew that this was a bad idea and that it wouldn’t end well. John was drunk enough for bad decisions, Simon desperate for feeling something, _anything_ , other than the apathy that he felt when we was with Claire. It would inevitably end, just as it had the previous year in the South of France. Whether with a bang or a fizzle, it remained to be seen, but there was no way that it could last. But that wouldn’t stop him now. They could deal with the fallout and consequences of this night later. For right now, the universe ceased to exist beyond John on top of him, breathing hard, whimpering, chest and face flushed, eyes shut tight as he rode Simon’s cock.

“Charlie,” he whined, back arched, thighs taught as he moved with aching, deliberate slowness.

“Fuck,” Simon gasped, fingers grasping so hard at John’s hips that they would definitely leave telltale marks of what they had done come the following morning. He was momentarily glad of the fact that Janine wasn’t in town with them, lest she see remnants of what Simon’s hands and mouth had done. The same couldn’t be said of him and Claire, but he forgot to pay John’s hands any mind as he scraped his fingernails down Simon’s chest.

Simon attempted to kick his trousers off, the offending garment still wrapped around his ankles, succeeding in only removing them from one leg. John’s shirt hung half open, and though it kept brushing against his cock he seemed to lack the foresight to remove it, and Simon didn't for a moment want to take his hands off John’s warm skin. It had felt so hurried when they began, but now Simon wanted to take his time, commit every detail to memory, not knowing when they would have this again, if ever.

He didn't want to forget how tight John felt around him, how absolutely gorgeous he was like this, laid completely bare and vulnerable (something that he did not let many people see these days), unable to stop the sounds and words that tumbled past his lips. He didn't want to forget how absolutely perfect, how right being with John felt.

Smoothing his palms over John’s thighs, Simon lifted his hips from the floor, sliding deeper into John’s body. The younger man was woefully under prepared, just enough so that it wouldn’t be unbearable, but had insisted that they didn't wait any longer. The push-pull that they were engaged in almost burned with how good, how hurried, how desperate it felt. John’s breathing hitched and he let out a soft cry, which he quelled by biting down on his bottom lip, his eyes tightly squeezing shut. It wouldn’t be out of the question for someone to come looking for them, as they’d disappeared from the party without a word to anyone. And though the door to John’s room was locked, they didn’t want to take the chance of being found out.

“S’not too much, is it?” Simon rasped, rubbing John’s thighs, pulling his thoughts away from what might happen, and instead focusing on what was actually happening.

“No,” John replied with a slight shake of his head. “No. It's perfect.”

Groaning as John leaned forward, resting his palms on his chest, Simon’s hands moved from John’s thighs, up his shirt, to the expanse of his back, feeling the notches of his spine gently with his fingertips. John shivered beneath his touch, stilling for a moment. Simon moved shallowly inside of him, swallowing thickly and lifting his head from the floor, feebly attempting kiss John on the mouth. John, eventually getting the message, closed the space between them and captured Simon’s lips with his, tongue flicking into his mouth. Simon could taste the vodka and cigarettes, and they never tasted as good as they did on John’s lips.

It occurred to Simon in that moment that all the pretense of this being just a quick fuck had gone right out the window. He was reminded of their first (and up until then, only) time together in Valbonne, moving with deliberate slowness in the morning, both terrified of everything. Still terrified now, but the yearning of the past year, the suddenness of everything that had happened on the balcony had given way to what they both wanted - a little tenderness. John, clearly a little hazy from the drink, had relented, blunt fingernails that had scratched at Simon’s skin giving way to gentle touches from his calloused fingertips.

Simon finally pulled John’s shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere behind them, hands settling on on the small of his back. Divested of the last of his clothing, Simon took a moment to drink in the sight of John on top of him, apparently doing so long enough that John shoved his shoulder and wriggled on top of him, not at all appreciating the suddenness with which Simon had stopped.

“Charlie, c’mon,” he gasped, moving _just so_ , causing Simon to buck his hips and cry out. “We haven’t got all night.”

Simon wished that they did.

He woke up the following morning in his own hotel bed, having left John’s room hours before he was due to be up, before they were on the road again. Claire didn’t move as the bed dipped next to her, and at least pretended not to acknowledge the fact that her fiancée was so late to bed that he was early. She didn’t say anything about the scratches on his body, left by John’s eager hands.

Simon pretended that the night with John hadn’t been painful as it was amazing.

They would deal with the fallout later. As they always did.

.     .     .

 **1985  
** _Philadelphia_

“Hey, has anyone called you?”

John lifted his head, looking at Andy who was standing at the left wing of the stage. Andy’s face was a mix of confusion, worry, and anger, and John couldn’t have even begun to dissect all of the layers of that expression, and what may have been the root of it. They were playing a show that night, one of The Power Station’s last. John was almost relieved to be done with it all. He thought he’d wanted this, something away from Duran, and he had, but he’d had enough.

None of that explained the look on Andy’s face. Bass guitar still slung around his shoulders, though the tuning of it forgotten, John furrowed his brow and scratched at his chin.

“No,” he finally replied. “Though it’s a loaded question. But, no. No one’s called. What are you on about?”

“Just … a rumour we’ve heard.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time for that,” John said, trying to alleviate the air of tension with a small chuckle. “C’mon, Andy. What’s going on?”

“The boat,” Andy finally managed. “Drum. Simon’s. It capsized.”

Somewhere in the cavity of John’s chest, his heart dropped, and a shiver of fear ran down along his spine. The world narrowed down to him and Andy, seemingly alone in the arena, and the word _capsized_. He tried to keep himself from panicking, unable to recall the last that he’d even spoken to Simon. Likely something akin to “see you soon.”

But what if he wouldn’t?

Finding his voice, John finally decided to use it. “Is he -”

“Don't know.”

They hadn't spoken since Live Aid, and before that they hadn't spoken for months. Things had been strained, not just between them but everyone - the whole band, the Berrows. It was part of the reason that John and Andy had left to work on material with Robert Palmer and Tony Thompson, why Simon, Nick, and Roger were working on something of their own. All was not well in land of Duran, and they all seemed to be drifting away from the band, from each other.

John and Simon had begun drifting apart shortly after Toronto the year previous. John had begun hitting the bottle a little more, Simon’s relationship with Claire ended shortly after he met Yasmin. In a cruel twist of fate, there was once again a tension between them that they couldn't seem to alleviate. This time, friendship and the band hadn’t been enough, and the rift between them increased with each passing day, so it seemed. John retreated into drugs, booze, and women, while Simon retreated into something that resembled domesticity with his beautiful new girlfriend.

“It's just a rumour,” Andy said, stepping over to John and grabbing his bass as he took it off. “We don't know if it’s true.”

“If we’re hearing about it, it’s gotta be true. They usually don't let the rumours get to us if there's not some grain of truth.” Suddenly, John felt panicked. “Fuck, Andy. I don't know anything about fuckin’ yachts. But capsizing isn't good, I know that much.”

“Doesn’t mean he's hurt,” Andy said, setting John’s bass back in its stand.

“It’s not him being hurt that I'm worried about. It's the other thing.”

“Well, he isn't that either.”

John knew that Andy possessed as much knowledge of what was going on as he did, but he appreciated the conviction with which he assured him that Simon wasn’t dead. Even if they didn’t truly know.

The day dragged on, and no one called. Not the Berrows (though John couldn’t entirely fault them as they were on the boat as well), not Nick or Roger, not anyone. Before The Power Station were due to go on stage, Robert told them that he’d heard that Simon was fine, on the fucking radio of all places, the rest of the crew too. John breathed easier than he had in hours, the dread uncoiling from within the pit of his stomach, giving way to relief, but also to rage and disappointment. That didn't stop him from locking himself in a closet away from the prying eyes of everyone, trying to muffle his sobs of relief and shame.

.     .     .

“So, you can't pick up the fuckin’ phone and fuckin’ call me? I have to read about it in fuckin’ People magazine?”

“Hello to you too, John.”

John refused to admit that hearing Simon’s voice at the end of the line was comforting as it was frustrating. Even though he knew Simon was okay, that he was fine after the accident, they hadn't talked. Simon had continued on with the race, John had continued on with The Power Station’s tour. Even then, it burned him and Andy that no one even attempted to get in touch with them. Sure, John knew that if he really truly wanted to that he could pick up the phone, call Simon himself, but he couldn't bring himself to. Ashamed of how he’d handled himself the last time that they’d spoken, in that he acted like he couldn’t have cared that they were in the same room together.

It wasn't until John read an interview in People magazine the following week that he found out just how close his friend (could he even still call him that?) had come to dying that day. The laissez faire attitude with which they had received the information that day, the fact that no one contacted them to let them know what was happening infuriated both John and Andy, but they didn’t have any idea how bad it had been, how easily they could not be having this conversation.

“No one called,” John said, throwing the magazine onto the floor. “No one _fuckin’_ called! Andy heard about it through rumours, and we didn’t know you were okay until Robert heard about it on the news.”

“ _You_ could’ve called!” Simon shouted. “Bloody Christ, it’s all about you isn’t it, Johnny Boy?”

“Who would I have called?” John asked, pacing his living room. “Your bleedin’ yacht? Yeah, can you put Simon on if his head’s not fully submerged? Fuck!” John instantly regretted kicking his couch, forgetting that the bottom portion of it wasn’t nearly as forgiving as the cushions on top of it. He muffled a curse and pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment. The adrenaline of the pain, the adrenaline of the rage began to fade, replaced instead with the hurt and the relief that John felt at not having any knowledge what had happened to Simon, and simultaneously knowing that he was alive. After a moment of silence on the end of the line, John sighed and managed to calm himself. “You’re one of my best friends, and I found out in a magazine the details about how you almost died.”

“Am I, though?” Simon asked. “Jesus, Johnny. We haven’t said two words to one another since Live Aid. And how long before then?”

“I’m sorry,” John said, the words surprising himself. “It’s all just -”

“Too much?”

John laughed a little, shaking his head at himself. “Yes, but I wasn’t going to say that. It’s all just fucked up, y’know? All of it. The band, you and I, Andy and everyone else. None of it is going how I pictured it.” John sighed, flopping down on his couch, his anger subsiding, his relief taking over. “Charlie, you almost fuckin’ died.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did,” Simon said.

John rubbed a hand over his face, hanging his head. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t there. I mean, not in the boat, but … you know.”

“I do. I know,” Simon offered, and John could hear the faint smile in his voice. “John, listen. I’m sorry too. Sorry that you had to read about it instead of hearing from me. I thought … well, I’ll be honest. I thought that it wouldn’t have mattered to you.”

“Wouldn’t have mattered?” John repeated, not believing the words that he just heard. “In what insane world would it not have mattered to me? You’re one of my best friends, and I’m sorry that I’m been a fuckin’ wanker about that. About everything.”

“It’s never just your doing,” Simon said as as he exhaled, John picturing the cigarette between his full lips. “It’s mine too. You’re not alone in fucking this all up, y’know.”

“The band or us?”

“Everything.”

Rubbing at the bridge of his nose, John leaned back against the couch cushions. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not going to.”

“I almost did a week ago. I almost lost you forever,” John said softly. For what felt like the first time in a long while, John’s head felt clear. Despite his pattern or turning to alcohol or cocaine for some manner of comfort, some manner of grounding in moments where he felt like the world was crashing down around him, for once he wasn’t under the influence. Clarity, he’d realized, was a marvellous thing. Unfortunately, with clarity also came his emotions, which he’d done a particularly good job of ignoring for the past few years. But now, with Simon on the phone, who he had almost lost, what he was feeling didn’t feel as terrifying. And as good as the clarity in that moment felt, it also came with the painful realization that he couldn’t have what he truly wanted. “Simon, we’re no good for each other. At least not in the way we seem to keep falling into. I feel like I lose you once a year, and I don’t think that I can do that anymore. It hurts too fuckin’ much.”

“This is not the kind of conversation that I thought we were going to have when you called,” Simon said.

“Me either,” John said, smiling just a little bit. “I want … I want to make everything work. The band, you and me. But I think if you and me are going to work that we can’t be anything more than friends. Not even a little bit. No matter how much we want to.”

“Hardly seems fair.”

“Few things are,” John added. “Do you think we can do that? Go back to how it was before we fell into whatever it was we fell into? Because I miss that.”

“I miss it too,” Simon added. “John, it’s not going to be easy. But don’t think for a second that I won’t try. I don’t want to lose what we have, or the band. We just … I think we have to move on from one another. We’re clearly not meant to be anything more than friends, bandmates. And I’m okay with that. I’m more than okay with that. But I need to know that you are too. It’s not going to work if one of us is still pining for the other. Can we just admit that we were being young and dumb?”

“You may be that old, but I’m not,” John teased, delighted to hear laughter from Simon. “I’m okay with it too.”

In all actuality, John didn’t know if he was okay with it. He couldn’t deny how full his heart was for Simon, but he would be a fool to not acknowledge that they couldn’t keep doing this dance, the back and forth that had made up their lives for three years. It couldn’t work if they wanted to remain friends, bandmates, and they needed to quell those desires.

John knew full well that he might go mad from denying himself what he wanted, but he’d been doing it for the better part of five years. He could easily do it the rest of his life.

.     .     .

 **1987  
** _Paris_

He recalled a moment, five years before, when he’d been in the same cafe, the atmosphere so incredibly different. Then, the interior and exterior of the building had been swarmed with teenaged girls, wanting just a glimpse of him. Now, it was apparent a few people recognized him, but no one approached him, and there was little to no fanfare about his presence.

It was equal parts a relief, disappointing, and humbling.

Simon paid for the two coffees to-go, then made his way toward the exit. John was standing outside, smoking a cigarette under a black umbrella. Hearing the bells jingle in the doorway, John turned his head as he took a drag of the cigarette, a smile broadening over his face when he saw the coffee. Simon traded John the coffee for the umbrella and watched as John took a gulp from the paper cup.

“Oh, god,” he groaned, eyelids sliding closed. “Fuckin’ heaven, mate. Cheers.”

It had been a late night, for all of them, though John had begun fraying at the edges a little earlier than Simon or Nick, coming down from a hit of coke that he’d partaken in earlier in the day. Neither Nick nor Simon said anything, and Simon hated himself for it. Aside from years ago in the South of France, he’d said very little to John of his drug use, telling himself that it wasn’t nearly as bad as it seemed, even when it was quite apparent that it was.

Nick was at the studio, putting some of the finishing touches on a song that they had been working on, John and Simon’s services, instruments and talents not required that day. Nick made a joke about them going on a date to the Lourve, and while John had laughed Simon had scowled.

“You’re a shit,” Simon said later, grabbing Nick by the elbow during a moment in which they were surprisingly alone in the studio, Nick seated at the mixing board.

“I’m sure you’re right, but why this time?” Nick asked, arching an eyebrow at Simon.

“You _know_ mine and John’s history,” Simon said, just as Nick was rolling his eyes. “Bleedin’ Christ, don’t roll your eyes at me. You think I don’t know that you’re the only person he’s ever said more than two words to it about?”

“While this is _clearly_ the perfect time for you to get agitated with me,” Nick began, turning back toward the board and away from Simon, “I’m not entirely sure what’s brought this on.”

“ _A date to the Lourve_? Fuck off,” Simon replied, running his fingers through his hair, pulling it away from his face. He couldn’t decide if he was in desperate need of a haircut or not, though Yasmin seemed to enjoy pulling on it at opportune moments. “Of all the things you’ve -”

“1982,” Nick said, apropos of nothing, not taking his eyes away from the mixing board.

“What?” Simon asked, furrowing his brow.

“1982,” Nick repeated, finally casting a glance at Simon over his shoulder. “The last time John and I said ‘more than two words’ about whatever it was that you two were doing behind doors. Both closed and open. You two weren’t exactly subtle.” Nick rotated in his chair, fully facing Simon and looking up at him. “And do you know what the extent of that conversation was? I asked ‘You and Simon?’ to which he replied ‘Sometimes. It’s nothing terribly official.’ That’s it. Six years. Six bloody years you two idiots have been back and forth with this.”

Simon looked at Nick, mouth agape, while Nick leaned back in his chair. “Andy, Roger, and I had an agreement at the time. So long as you two seemed happy with whatever you were doing, so long as it wasn’t affecting the band, we wouldn’t say anything. Although, if we’re talking about it now I must admit that I’ve seen your bare ass more times than I think is comfortable for someone that you weren’t shagging on a semi-regular basis. Honestly, would it have killed you and John to exercise some precaution? Do you know how many times the other Taylors and I covered for you two? Please stop looking at me like that. Sit down before you fall over.”

Looking around for a moment, Simon finally found a chair next to Nick at the mixing board and slumped down into it. Nick took the time to rummage through his jacket pocket and procure a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, which he offered to Simon, but the other man shook his head. Nick shrugged and pulled one out for himself and tossed the pack onto the board in case Simon changed his mind.

“Now,” Nick continued once he’d lit his cigarette, scratching at his forehead, “you and John started falling out when the band started falling apart, so we couldn't have paid it any mind even if we had wanted to. And after you two had broken up, or whatever it was you did, we really appreciated you two mending your relationship so that we could go on as if nothing happened.” Nick took a drag from his cigarette, and Simon watched, almost transfixed. “But now there is no Andy, no Roger, and I’ll be damned if you two aren’t going to do my bloody head in. John hasn’t said anything, but I’ve known him since we were kids, and he is trying his hardest to make your friendship work. I assume you talked after your accident?” Simon nodded. “And while he is trying to make your friendship work, he’s also trying to quash his feelings for you. And you, my dear Simon, are about as a subtle as a bull in a china shop. You don’t think I’ve noticed the pattern with you two?”

“Fuckin’ hell. There’s a pattern?” Simon asked, finally saying something after what seemed like far too long.

“He speaks!” Nick declared to no one in particular, looking up at the ceiling and spreading his arms. “Yes, there’s a pattern. Whenever one of you tries or starts to pull away, the other doubles down on lingering looks and visible pining. Right now, John is trying, and right now, you are pining.”

“I’m not pining,” Simon scoffed, looking as indignant as he could muster. “I’m married. I have a wife. And he has a girl.”

“You were engaged to Claire once upon a time,” Nick said, looking upward and exasperated as he took a drag. “That didn’t stop you and John.”

Simon opened his mouth to say something, but settled on huffing and looking petulant instead.

“I’m not trying to sway you in any particular direction,” Nick finally said. “Both of you are extremely dear to me, but we’re not children anymore. You both need to _actually_ settle on what you’re doing, and actually talk about it. You’re going to drive yourselves, each other - and more importantly - me absolutely mad. Either commit to one another in some way, or put it all behind you and chalk it up to youth. But whatever you do, you both need to _actually talk about it_ , agree to something, and stick to it.”

Once it was evident that Nick was all out of words to say, Simon slumped in his chair and blew a strand of his hair away from his eyes. In all the years that he and John had been back and forth, that was probably the most that anyone had talked about it, and the words had come from neither of them.

“We talked about it. Once,” Simon said, glancing up at the ceiling. “After my accident. There was the usual - the yelling, the accusations, and eventually John opened up. Saying that he didn’t want to lose me, and what we were doing - the back and forth - it wasn’t going to end well for us, that we should try and go back to the way things had been before he ever had feelings for me, before I ever found out. And I’ve been trying, Nick. Since 19-fucking-83 I’ve been trying. But I can’t get him out of my head. We just … we always fall back into it, even when we know we shouldn’t.”

“Well. There’s something,” Nick said, blowing smoke out the side of his mouth and reaching for a nearby ashtray. “You’ve got to be honest with yourself, Simon. What do you want out of all of this? John has told you how he feels, what he thinks is inevitable for the both of you. Do you respect that?” Simon nodded, wordless in his response. “Then you have to let it go. Somehow, you have to let him go.”

“Oi, Charlie.”

Simon snapped out of his reverie and looked at John, who was sipping his coffee, caught under a torrent of rain. He flicked the butt of his cigarette onto the ground and reached out, cold and clammy palm closing over Simon’s hand that held the umbrella aloft, and pulling it so that the umbrella was poised over him as well.

“That’s better,” John said, running a hand through his damp hair. “Now, if I remember correctly, you were taking me on a date to the Lourve?”

Simon would have throttled Nick if he had been there, instead of safe in the recording studio.

.     .     .

Paris’s famed museum became a place of refuge for soaked tourists and locals from the downpour outside. The crowded gallery could have easily spelled hours of signing autographs and taking pictures for Simon and John, but the people inside with them either did not know or care who they were, so they remained relatively interrupted. Naturally, there were one or two girls who approached them, but it didn’t seem to attract further attention from other bystanders.

Simon and John listed from room to room, pausing to admire the art hanging on the walls. They stayed away from the Mona Lisa, partly because of the crowd, but also because they’d already seen it years before when they were allowed into the Lourve after closing, something that the Berrows had arranged. They’d all been too high to enjoy it, but Da Vinci’s masterpiece had left an impression on them all regardless of their state of mind.

John’s fingertips brushed along the back of Simon’s hand as an over eager group of school children rushed past them, and Simon would have much prefered instead of continuing to exist he had spontaneously combusted instead. Nick’s words the previous day had left him thinking about what it was that he wanted. Did he want John, or did he simply want him because it was something that he couldn’t have? John seemed to be doing just fine without him, nary a pining look or fleeting glance to be found. Simon wondered if John had moved on from whatever their relationship had been, or if he was simply really good at acting as if he were.

Whatever the case may be, Simon was doing his best to push all of his feelings down into the pit of his stomach. They could live there until he inevitably died. They’d agreed that they were no good for one another, and John was trying, which meant that Simon had to as well. He didn’t want to risk tarnishing the wonderful friendship that he and John had rebuilt on the ashes of their ex-lover status.

Having had their fill of the Lourve, they left and got a cab back to the apartment that they were staying in for the duration of recording their newest album. Spacious and lavish, the three of them hadn’t wanted for anything. Occasionally during their what little downtime they had Yasmin, Renée, and Julie would come to visit, and the six of them would spend the night at the clubs in Paris, not returning until the early morning. But for the most part, the boys were left to work, pressure from EMI mounting after _Notorious_ had been less than successful.

John shook the rain water that had collected on his jacket from the brief jog from the cab to the building once they entered their apartment, wiping his boots on the welcome mat as well. Simon tossed the broken umbrella (did they ever last?) onto the floor, and took off his own coat, watching as John kicked his boots off.

“I feel like we should do something productive,” John said, taking Simon’s coat. “When was the last time we had a proper day off?”

“It’s been a while,” Simon replied, watching as John made his way to the washroom to hang their damp coats up over the bathtub. In the moment that he was alone in the foyer, he sighed and wondered if there had ever been any avoiding this. Maybe, had they not had that first proper kiss in New York. Maybe, had that not happened, they could’ve saved themselves a lot of heartache. But, knowing them, knowing how tumultuous the early part of the decade had been, they probably would’ve fallen into something one way or another. “Hey, Johnny Boy. Can we talk?”

“Nothing good ever comes from that sentence,” John said, forcing a smile as he emerged from the washroom. “But, yeah. Of course we can talk.”

“I wanted to talk about … us.”

Shock registered on John’s face for a moment, before he steeled his expression and made his way into the living room. “I thought there was no _us_ . _Us_ hasn’t existed in any capacity for almost three years now, if I recall correctly. Though, I’m not certain that I do. I didn’t get drunk and put my hands all over you, did I?”

Flopping onto the couch, John looked at Simon expectantly as he followed, sitting a tad more gingerly on the opposite side of the piece of furniture. “No, you didn’t. And you’re right. `84 was the last time I recall shoving my tongue down your throat, and other things into other places.” Simon paused, looking down at his hands, and John let a mournful chuckle escape his throat. “The problem is … I feel as if I want it again. Not just the sex, the fooling around, whatever we did, but something. And I know we agreed that it would only end badly, but that hasn’t stopped me from thinking about it. And it’s bloody foolish because I’m with Yaz, you’re with Renée. I’m happy with what I have with her, I really am. But, John … that hasn’t stopped me from wanting _you_.”

“I knew you weren’t going to make this easy on me, Charlie,” John said, seemingly unphased by what Simon had just unloaded on him.

“Am I really that obvious?” Simon asked, looking over at him, to which John merely nodded. “Well, fuck. And here I thought I was doing a good job of not wearing my heart on my sleeve for once. A recommendation from you, if I recall correctly.”

“Never change,” John said, offering Simon a fond smile. “I like your heart just where it is. I was a  damn fool to recommend otherwise.” He sighed, shifting in his seat a little, getting more comfortable. “Here’s the thing,” he began, “I want you too. More than I probably should. No one has ever made me feel more wonderful than you do. Physically, mentally … whatever. But -”

“But?”

“But I’m fucking _terrified_ , Simon,” John finished, biting at his bottom lip. “Look at how bad it’s ended before. I can’t do that again. I really don’t think we’re meant to be anything more than friends. Not if we’re going to be in the band together. I’m not willing to give you or Duran up. Don’t make me choose.”

Simon sighed, looking at John and then back down at his hands. John was right, he wasn’t being fair. They’d been down this road before, and it hadn’t ended well. “You’re right,” he said softly. “You’re right,” he repeated, a little louder, a little firmer. “It’s not fair for me to put this all on you when you’re the one that said you wanted to stop. I’m sorry, Johnny.”

“Hey,” John said, scooting a little closer and reaching for Simon’s hand. “There’s something that I wanted to tell you. That I’ve always wanted to tell you. And since we’re here revealing secrets and feelings, it seems as good a time as any.” Simon looked at John’s hand, holding his firmly, and then up at his friend’s face. “Do you remember in Valbonne? The night we had that big blow up at one another?”

“Beginning of the end? Yeah, I remember,” Simon replied, flexing his fingers within John’s grasp.

“You told me that you cared about me, that you loved me. I told you that I didn’t.” John pursed his lips, and Simon remembered the evening vividly. It was just days after he and John had had sex for the first time, and John had been getting increasingly more cagey, pulling away, unable to deal with what he had been feeling at the time, both with the two of them and with the band, with life. “I lied,” John finally continued. “I did. I do. I do love you. So bleedin’ much.”

“I love you too,” Simon said, his voice sad with the realization that it was all too little, too late. He felt immensely selfish in that moment, wanting nothing more than to tangle his hand in John’s hair and pull their mouths together. But it wouldn’t have been fair, and it wouldn’t have been right. Not now when they were trying to make a go of the band without two members, not now when their star was seemingly descending, not now when they both had so much to lose besides one another. “And I’m certain I always will.”

John smiled sadly, his free hand reaching up to push some of Simon’s hair away from his face. “Fuck, Charlie,” he muttered. “Why were we so blockheaded just a few years ago?”

“Youth,” Simon replied, though they hadn’t been _that_ much younger, it certainly felt like it. “Drugs, booze, girls, fame … the list was endless.” He leaned into John’s touch, eyelids sliding closed, trying to commit the sensation to memory. “Could it have been different?”

“Maybe,” John answered almost in a regretful sigh. “Without a time machine, we’ll never know.”

At the sound of keys in the door, John practically leapt up from the couch like a frightened teenager about to be found out by his parents, and Simon was left mourning the warmth of John’s touch. The door opened and Nick walked in, shaking rain from his umbrella into the hallway. If he noticed the still in the room, the tension that he had just walked into, he paid it no mind and said nothing of it.

Simon was becoming increasingly frustrated with the amount of times he was wanting to throttle Nick.

.     .     .

The rain continued through the evening, and after dinner the three of them sat in the living room, drinking wine, talking, and laughing. About the songs that they were working on, about life, about the past, and about the future. When they’d successfully polished off two bottles, Nick’s teeth and lips purple from the merlot, they called it a night. John had been on the telephone with Renée, his voice a strained whisper laced with anger, when Simon eventually retired to bed, closing the door behind him and still very much wanting the earth to open up and swallow him.

Simon laid in his bed, body turned toward the window, watching the drops of rain reflecting in the street lights. He had hoped that the sound of water hitting buildings, the pavement, would lull him to sleep, but he remained awake as he ever had, attempting to reconcile his feelings for John.

He had been right - there was no end to this which didn’t end in some manner of heartbreak, those who didn’t remember history were doomed to repeat it. It hadn’t been fair for him to tell John how he felt, John’s words from earlier ringing in his ear, “Don’t make me choose.”

There could be nothing so long as they were in a band together, and Simon knew he wouldn’t trade anything in the world for what he was doing with the band. He wouldn’t dare ask John to do something that he himself could never commit or even fathom of doing.

The door to his room opened quietly, and Simon thought for a moment that perhaps Yasmin had showed up to surprise him. He had considered picking up the phone earlier to call her, maybe get her on the next plane from London, but thought better of it. She didn’t need to be burdened with his sadness at the hands of someone else, someone else who he loved perhaps as much as her, but could certainly never unseat her as the love of his life.

Knowing the sound wasn’t of his mind’s making, Simon rolled over onto his back and then sat up in the bed, brow furrowed as his eyes settled upon John, who was quietly closing the door behind him. Wearing an old and battered Roxy Music t-shirt, along with a pair of shorts, John made his way toward Simon’s bed, but said nothing as their eyes met. Simon’s attempts to find his voice proved useless, normal eloquence giving way to wide-eyedness, and he instead opted for simply watching intently as John lifted the edge of the blanket covering Simon’s bed, getting beneath it with his friend.

Simon suddenly cursed himself for going to bed naked. Though how could he have known that John would come into his room and into his bed in the late hours of the night? But it hardly seemed fair that John was, for all intents and purposes, fully clothed, while Simon was not.

John moved his body slowly over Simon’s, knees planted on either side of his hips. Simon could hear John swallow thickly, and allowed him to push him back down to the mattress. His eyes wide and wild, Simon watched raptly as John leaned in and kissed at his bottom lip. Once he seemed to have deemed that Simon wouldn’t toss him out into the hallway, he kissed him a bit more firmly. Simon sighed against John’s mouth, eyelids fluttering closed, his hands tentatively coming to rest on John’s biceps, spindly as they were.

“It doesn’t have to be serious,” John breathed against Simon’s lips. “Lord help me, I can’t get you out of my head. I don’t want to. Just promise me that we won’t fuck it up this time. And if we start to, that we’ll stop, that we’ll be okay. That everything will be okay.”

“It’ll be okay,” Simon promised, and though he wanted it to be true more than anything he’d ever promised before in his life, he knew that there was no way that he could promise that. And he knew that John was aware of that. But that didn’t stop him from saying it, or John from believing it.

John nodded, kissing Simon fiercely then. Whether he truly believed Simon or not didn’t matter, what mattered was that he chose to believe him. Simon tilted his head up, pressing more into the kiss, a soft moan escaping him. Wasting no time, John pulled his t-shirt off and then hooked his thumbs into his shorts, pulling them over his hips and then kicking them off of his legs, letting them gather somewhere at the bottom of the bed. Simon moaned appreciatively at the feeling of John’s warm skin against his, his hands mapping the plane of John’s back, over his shoulders and his spine. John wriggled against Simon’s body, his hardening cock bumping against Simon’s thigh, as Simon’s own grazed John’s belly. It had been three years since the last time that they had been together, and the desperation and the longing that they had kept inside them for so long was beginning to spill out in an alarming rate. They both could not get enough of touching the other, trying to commit the contours of the other’s body to memory, as if they hadn’t already years ago.

Pulling his lips from Simon’s, John pressed his face into the hollow of his throat, gasping as he reached down and wrapped a hand around the both of them. Simon shuddered and bowed toward John’s touch, back arching off of the mattress, tangling one of his legs with John’s. He scraped his fingers down John’s back, the edges of his blunt fingernails catching on pale skin. John’s breathing hitched as he began stroking them in tandem, pressing his thumb against the head of Simon’s cock. Simon’s eyelids fluttered shut, one of his hands tangling in John’s hair, pulling a bit more harshly than he meant to at the brunette strands between his fingers. John moaned, arching against Simon’s body, the older man mumbling an apology.

“S’okay,” John rasped, lips tickling Simon’s throat.

They rutted together as if they were starved for another, and they were, unable to get enough to quench their lust. Simon’s hands mapped skin that he had longed for for years, John’s calloused hand working them both up into a fevered pitch which neither of them wanted to reach just yet. Pressing his forehead against John’s, Simon could feel his own climax approaching, the base of his spine tingling with anticipation. He reached down between them, covering John’s hand with his own, gasping as John whimpered against his lips.

“Simon,” John whined, his free hand clutching at the sheets beneath them, his hips thrusting into the curl of their hands. “Simon … I love you. Fuck, I love you.”

“I love you too,” Simon gasped, as John began shuddering on top of him. John’s name was a mantra on Simon’s lips as he came soon after, body bowing off the mattress, attempting to press closer to John, to feel every part of him.

They rode out their orgasms together, skin warm against one another as they eventually stilled, Simon coming to rest against the sheets, John coming to rest on top of Simon. After a moment of laboured breathing, John chuckled softly, and Simon smiled faintly up at him, reaching up to push his hair away from his eyes.

“That escalated quickly,” John said, bumping his forehead against Simon’s.

“And whose fault is that?” Simon managed, cocking an eyebrow. “I was in here just trying to sleep until you crept in.”

“Complaints?”

“Perish the thought.”

Languishing against the sheets, Simon watched as John slowly and carefully got up, clearly unsure on his legs, and reached for his discarded t-shirt on the floor, which he used to clean them both up as much as he could. He couldn’t take his eyes off of John, not even for a moment, frightened that if he blinked or looked away that it would all be over, that it would have been nothing more than a figment of his imagination. To his joy and shock, John got back into the bed, curling against his body, pressing his lips against his shoulder.

“Charlie,” he began, fingertips tracing idle patterns against Simon’s chest, “please.”

It was all that he said, though he didn’t need to say more. Simon knew exactly what he meant, what he wanted. There was no way that he was letting John go now, and he had no intention of doing so ever. They’d been through enough together in the past six years; whatever else it was that their lives intended on throwing at them, they would find a way. They would find a way to get by.


	2. 1990s

**1990  
** _London_

 _Don't worry if you're confused,_  
_We all tend to be sometimes._  
_The whole world is getting used,  
It's just the way it is._

 _Maybe right, but maybe wrong._  
_Doesn't have to be serious._  
_Being hard isn't being strong._  
_Doesn't have to be serious._  
_Fighting for love, fighting for pain._  
_Doesn't have to be serious._  
_And if you win, what do you gain?  
Doesn't have to be serious …_

It always caught John off guard any time that he heard one of their songs on the radio, and it had since the first time that it happened. But it especially felt equal parts wonderful and strange when it was a song that contained lyrics inspired by his relationship with Simon in some capacity. There weren’t many, John only knew of a handful, and had never wanted to ask when Simon shared with him what he was writing, or when he listened to him sing in the studio. He didn’t want to be presumptuous, he wasn’t the only love in Simon’s life, nor did the other man always write from experience.

Though, it was hard to mistake this one, the chorus filled with the sentence that John had uttered to Simon that night in Paris after he had crawled into his bed, filled with intent and desire. Whether Nick had picked up on the true meaning of the lyrics, he never said, and Warren and Sterling were kept in the dark about that aspect of their relationship. The fewer people that knew, the better.

John puttered around his kitchen, Simon’s voice filling the room from the radio perched on the counter, humming along with a coffee in one hand and cigarette in the other. He mulled over whether or not he wanted breakfast, and though his stomach gave a knowing growl, he decided that it could wait. He had more important matters to attend to at that moment.

Wandering through his home to his bedroom, he paused in the doorway to observe the tangle of limbs currently occupying the majority of his bed. A king sized bed, and still Simon found a way to take over almost all of it once John got up, even for a moment. He’d debated whether or not he wanted to go to the washroom any time Simon stayed the night, knowing that he’d return to find himself delegated to the edge of the bed. Simon was dead to the world, the duvet and sheets tangled around his long legs, cheek pressed into the pillow, arms flung across the expanse of the bed. Despite having learned many years ago how to sleep in cramped spaces, how to pass out on planes and trains, Simon fully utilized any part of a bed that wasn’t occupied by something else. It was a gift, really.

After making his way to the middle of the room, John sat on the edge of the bed, watching as Simon slowly woke up, quite obviously having smelled coffee nearby. He blinked his eyes open slowly and groaned, rolling toward John and resting his cheek against the other man’s thigh.

“Didn’t we just fall asleep?” he asked, rubbing at his eye and stifling a yawn. “How is it morning?”

“A few hours ago,” John replied, looking at the clock on his nightstand. “But someone needs to go back to his own home. That someone being you. I’ll not have Yaz calling again and getting cross with me because I’ve kept you for far too long.”

Though John teased, he really did adore Simon’s wife. Intelligent, beautiful, and understanding. His own relationship with Renée had fizzled, so it hadn’t been worth mentioning anything to her, but after weeks of falling into each other’s beds and trying to keep it a secret, Simon hadn’t been able to do it anymore - the secret part, that is. John wouldn’t have wanted him to. Luckily for all involved, Yasmin was okay with sharing, so long as it was John and only John. Anyone else was off limits. Simon didn’t want anyone else anyway. He had everything he needed with John and Yasmin.

“I don’t ask for much,” Yasmin had said to John at a New Year’s Eve celebration, as they rang in 1988 at the Le Bon household. “Only that you both remember his vows. I can share, he’s a handful anyway. If he can burn off energy with you, so much the better.” She’d smiled as she had a sip of her martini, looking at her husband from across the room. “You two have something special, I’d be a fool to stand in the way of that. I wouldn’t want to, and I won’t fight you for him. Just don’t keep him for too long at any given interval, and don’t send him back in any state other than the one in which you found him.”

Much hadn’t changed with the birth of their daughter, Amber, though Simon’s time was certainly split one more way, yet they all managed. Even with a baby in the picture, he and John found the time to be together. It was all either of them wanted - just time together, to allow themselves to be and feel the things that they had denied themselves and each other in the early 80’s.

Simon reached for John’s mug of coffee and propped himself up against the headboard before taking a sip, groaning appreciatively as the warm liquid slid down his throat. John leaned against Simon’s body, cigarette dangling from his lips, He reached over to the nightstand and grabbed the ashtray there, settling it on his lap.

“ _Serious_ was on the radio,” he said idly, glancing down at Simon as the older man siphoned his stolen coffee into his mouth.

“Feel all warm and fuzzy inside?” Simon teased, looking up at him.

“No, because you stole my bloody coffee,” John replied with a chuckle. He looked thoughtful for a moment, scratching at the day old stubble on his jaw. “It’s strange to a hear a song written about you on the radio. I will say that.” He said nothing about the fact that album was underperforming, and that it was becoming a point of contention between the three of them, along with Warren and Sterling. They’d decided not to tour in support of _Liberty_ , the first time they hadn’t released an album and subsequently took to the arenas and concert halls, and it wasn’t doing record sales any favours. Though John wondered if it would have helped. The 80’s were over, and their star was no longer on the rise. Many a band meeting as of late was focused on where to go and what to do next, it wasn’t just them feeling the pinch of a changing industry.

Simon finally handed John’s coffee back to him, and got up slowly from the bed, beginning to roam around the room in search of clothing that he’d forgotten about. “You write a lot of songs about me?” John finally asked, taking a drag of his cigarette as Simon struggled to get his pants back on.

“Before now? Not many,” Simon replied, buttoning up his jeans. “ _Of Crime and Passion_ , some of the stuff Nick, Roger, and I did with Arcadia.”

“So, the angry, angsty stuff,” John said with a sardonic smile.

“You certainly gave me reasons to write like a forlorn teenager,” Simon teased, looking over at John and smiling. “Though that was of my own doing as well. It’s wasn’t just you. And then there’s some stuff about you on _Liberty_ \- but you knew that already.” Simon turned his attention back to the floor, sorting through the pile of shirts scattered over it. “Fuckin’ hell, Johnny. Do some bloody laundry.” Finally finding his own shirt (or one of John’s that he liked), he stood triumphantly and pulled it over his head. “What about you? Ever write anything about me with The Power Station?”

“No,” John replied honestly, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray on his lap, and then setting it back in its home on the nightstand. “I was too fuckin’ high most of the time to attempt to put how I felt about you, about us, into song.”

“Your _modus operandi_ then seemed to be reeling me in only to push me away,” Simon said, walking over to John and ruffling his hair. “I’m glad it’s changed.”

“Me too,” John added, with a fond and genuine smile as Simon leaned down to kiss him affectionately.

.     .     .

John’s telephone rang mid-afternoon, rousing him from the nap that he had been taking, the long night with Simon having caught up with him. Not touring for their latest album still occasionally did not sit right with him, if only because he was still unaccustomed to not being part of the machine that was a touring band. Actually being in his home felt strange, and not at all comforting as he expected it to. Being at home meant being alone, and being alone meant that he sometimes couldn’t help the less than stellar and intrusive thoughts that crept up on him.

He’d long since removed the telephone from his bedroom, and only kept one in the living room, as a means of which to encourage him to haul himself out of bed on the days when he didn’t feel like going anywhere else. Why was it that people only called when he was sleeping? It didn’t matter who it was - his parents, Simon, Nick - no one ever seemed to call when he was awake. On the fifth or sixth ring, John picked up the phone, rubbing at his eyes.

“`Lo?”

“Oh. Sorry. Did I wake you?”

The voice on the other line, feminine with an affected American accent, seldom failed to have John fully roused from whatever state he’d been in. Belonging to a girl he’d been out with a handful of times, Amanda, the first woman that he’d been with since Renée, her voice filled his ears and awakened his senses, and he found the corners of his mouth tugging up into a smile.

“You did, but that’s fine. I did tell you to call whenever you wanted to,” John finally replied, sitting down on his couch.

“In all fairness, it’s two o’clock in the afternoon. Late night without me? I’m hurt.” She giggled on the other end of the line, and running a hand through his hair John pondered how to address that question with an equal amount of playfulness.

“Just Simon and I. You wouldn’t have been terribly interested,” was what he finally settled on, and Amanda hummed in approval. John knew that she was secretly (or not so secretly) glad to hear that it hadn’t been some manner of party that she had missed out on.

“Joined at the hip, you two are,” Amanda said, laughing a little. “I’ll be glad when I can get you to myself again.”

Without a beat, John asked, “Well, are you free for dinner tonight?”

.     .     .

It was the middle of the night, and John stood looking out one of the back windows of his house, looking into the garden. He’d returned from a night out with Amanda - dinner and dancing, and maybe a few other things that they shouldn’t have been getting into. In his mind, he mulled over once more what he should do. Since he’d started seeing Amanda, unofficial and unattached as it was, he knew that it would only be a matter of time before he fell hard and fast. He was a sucker for a pretty face, and a hopeless romantic. Amanda made him happy and helped him feel grounded, he liked her a lot.

But, there was the nagging in his head that he couldn’t just dive head first into a relationship with her. It wasn’t so simple. It wasn’t just his heart he had to worry about.

It was Simon’s.

Though they had gotten better about talking to one another in regards to their relationship, they hadn’t addressed the fact that it was, for all intents and purposes, a secret. Outside of Nick and Yasmin, no one else knew, and they intended to keep it that way. It was a delicate situation, one that was possibly more complicated than it needed to be. At the end of the day, it hinged on a little bit of secrecy, and a whole lot of trust. It was obvious that Nick could be trusted, and given the arrangement that John and Yasmin had with the affections of the man that they both loved, he knew that trust was the focal point to that, even if they hadn’t explicitly called it that.

They also hadn’t addressed what would happen in the event that John found someone else. Neither of them were foolish enough to believe that John wouldn’t meet a woman, and fall in love with her as well. It wasn’t just for the sake of keeping up appearances, John had every intention of finding a girl and marrying her some day, though he hadn’t thought about it much since he and Simon had gotten together. They were not as in the public eye as they had once been, but the nature of their relationship might not be understood. They never talked about it, but it was unspoken - it wouldn’t be fought if there was someone else who John came to care about, fall in love with. They would find a way to make it all work.

He couldn’t tell Amanda that Simon and Yasmin had an open relationship, but only when it came to him, because he and Simon were also in love. He couldn’t tell Amanda, who he couldn’t deny that part of him wanted and saw a future with even at such an early stage, that his affections would be divided between her and someone else, and that she would need to be okay with that.

John didn’t want to keep any secrets from Amanda, but he also didn’t trust her enough yet to divulge the other half of his love life, the half that didn’t include her.

What did one do when in a secret relationship with their best friend when they found their affections becoming divided between aforementioned best friend and a leggy and beautiful blonde?

John sighed, and pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the windowpane, wishing that it were all just a little bit easier.

.     .     .

Simon sounded frustrated when John spoke with him on the phone, which did not at all bode well considering the subject matter that John wanted to broach with him. Yasmin had taken Amber out for the day, and while Simon had invited John to come over, he was dreading their time together as much as he was looking forward to it.

“ _Liberty_ isn’t doing well,” Simon said, as he mixed the two of them something to drink. “I got off the phone with Nick before I called you and he’s fuckin’ livid about it.”

John was loathe to admit that he didn’t entirely remember the recording process that had gone into _Liberty_. All he remembered was being high all of the time. He thought the album had been decent, not their best, but he’d been proud of the end result. Apparently, few people aside from the band felt the same way.

“Growing pains,” John said, as Simon handed him a glass. “New guitar player, new drummer - we weren’t perfect right out of the gate with Andy and Roger either. Or you, for that matter. It took some figuring out.” Simon made a noncommittal hum in the back of his throat and finished is drink in one swig, causing even John to raise his eyebrows. “This is really bothering you, isn’t it?”

“It’s _not_ bothering you?” Simon asked, setting his empty glass down only to refill it again. He sighed, leaning against the bar. “Fuck, mate. Are we losing it?”

John always felt strange when he was in a position to comfort someone else. His life had been a mess for so long that it didn’t come entirely natural to him. With anyone else, he seemed to balk at the idea. But with Simon he tried. John set his glass of half finished liquor down on a nearby table and came up behind Simon, resting his chin on the other man’s shoulder.

“First of all, of course it’s bothering me. But I’m trying not to dwell on it too much because it’ll drive me mad. We made it, the album is out, people don’t like it. There’s nothing at this point that we can really do about it.” John paused, listening to Simon sigh softly, whether or not it was in relief he couldn’t rightly tell. “Secondly, we’re not losing it. The band is different now. The landscape of the music industry is changing. We’re still just trying to figure it out. We’re not the only ones that can’t seem to keep up.”

“Stop making sense,” Simon said, and John was positive he heard the hint of a smile in the other man’s voice.

“It happens so rarely. Relish in it,” John said teasingly, kissing Simon’s neck. “It’s going to be okay. The band is going to be okay. This was just … a miss.”

“It feels like they’ve all been misses since _Rio_. And that was damn near a decade ago.”

“Everything was different then,” John said, placing his hands on Simon’s hips. “The scene was different, the music was different, the fans were different, _we_ were different.”

Simon chuckled slightly. “Were we ever.”

John’s heart felt full at the sound of Simon’s laughter, however slight it might be. He sighed against Simon’s shoulder, holding him closer. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get through it. We’re not finished yet. We’ll just have to make the next album one of our best.”

“You sound oddly confident,” Simon said, turning so that he was facing John. “Confidence looks good on you, Johnny Boy. I’d see you wear it a bit more often.”

“I’m working on it,” John said softly, feeling his cheeks grow warm as Simon’s fingers brushed along his jawline. He could feel the telltale butterflies in his stomach that seemed to occur any time he and Simon were close, the electricity between them buzzing in the air. He didn’t want to delay in what he wanted to talk about any longer than necessary. If he ripped it off like a bandaid, maybe it would hurt a lot less. Though, John knew he was kidding himself with that. It would hurt no matter how quickly it was done. “Simon - ”

“Yeah?” Simon breathed, inching closer to John and lacing their fingers together.

“There’s something that I need to talk to you about.”

Simon pulled back at that, casting John a quizzical look. “You scare me when you talk like that, you know.”

“Flowery language is your forte, not mine,” John said with a small smile. “It’s about us. Sort of.”

“Should I be sitting down?” Simon asked, and John instantly felt badly about the whole situation. Sure, this wasn’t the best of news, but it wasn’t the worst either. But to see the wheels in Simon’s head turning, trying to figure out what this could possibly be, hoping that it wasn’t what he surely thought it was made John regret ever having said anything.

“It’s not _that_ bad,” John assured him, lips pressing against Simon’s in a reassuring kiss. “No, it’s just something that’s happening now and we need to figure out what we’re going to do.”

“Sounds like more alcohol is required,” Simon muttered, turning and mixing himself another drink.

“It’s not that bad,” John said once more, wanting to do his best to assure Simon that nothing terrible was happening. But clearly, the other man had already resigned himself to that fact. John moved back to the space on the couch he’d been occupying previously, and reached for his unfinished drink. “C’mon. Just … sit with me.”

Beverage in hand, Simon joined John on the couch, and John did his best to convey in his smile to the other man that there was nothing wrong with _them_. “I’ve met somebody,” he said, deciding there was no point in dancing around what he wanted to talk about. “And I like her quite a bit.”

Furrowing his brow, Simon took a sip of his drink, the wheels in his head shifting gears. It was clearly dawning on him, as it had John, that they’d never discussed what they would do in this situation. “Women are always complicating things, aren’t they?” he asked with a sardonic smile.

“I don’t know what to do, Charlie,” John continued, rubbing at his forehead. “I love you, I want to be with you in whatever capacity I can. But I want to be with Amanda too. I want to see where it goes. And I don’t want to lie to her. But I don’t trust her enough yet to tell her about … us.”

The furrow in Simon’s forehead hadn’t gone anywhere, and he appeared to be thinking, but John wished that he would say something. Not necessarily provide a solution, but assure him that they would be okay. It was all he had ever asked of Simon - that they would be okay. John was positive that his heart couldn’t take what manner of things he had put it through in the 80’s.

“We could take it easy for a little while,” Simon finally replied after taking a deep breath. “I mean, I’m not going anywhere. And I’ll be damned if I let you go after all we’ve been through to get to this point.” John finally took a swig from his drink, the warmth of the alcohol warming his throat and his stomach, comforting the knot that had seemed to be taking up residence there in recent hours. “We’ll just take a break from the more obvious things. The shagging mostly, I suppose.”

“It’s really the only thing that someone might construe as an indication that we’re anything more than friends,” John teased, smiling as Simon playfully swatted at him. Simon was too affectionate with most people, so long as they weren’t caught behind closed doors little else between them would be different. “And you’re okay with that? If we just pump the brakes until I have Amanda and I figured out?”

“Of course,” Simon answered, reaching out and pushing John’s bangs away from his face. “I mean, I’m not going to act like it’s my favourite idea, but if it’s what we need to do for a little while, I think that I can manage. Can you?”

John chuckled, taking a drink and then casting a glance at Simon. “So long as you give me a parting gift, I suppose I might be able to manage.”

Saying little else, Simon grabbed John’s drink, and deposited it with his own on the nearby table. John didn’t have much time for protest, as Simon covered his body with his own, pushing him back onto the couch, teeth already nipping at the skin along the hollow of his throat.

.     .     .

 **1991  
** _London_

The band was nearing the end of their recording sessions for their next album, but that didn’t stop Simon from churning out lyrics that could potentially be used for future projects. No matter how many times Nick told him to stay focused on what they were currently doing, Simon was forever writing, and everyone had realized long ago that wasn’t necessarily something that could be stopped. Though he’d gotten into a habit recently of attempting to hide it from Nick, lest the younger man become more frustrated than he already was.

But for months, Simon’s mind had been occupied with matters other than that of the band. He hated the pit of jealousy that took up residence in the bottom of his stomach since John had met Amanda. While he’d been amenable to taking a break from their relationship while John figured things out with his new girlfriend, the break had ended up being much longer than he had anticipated. Over a year, in fact. They didn’t speak of it, Simon waiting on bated breath for a chance to perhaps be with John again.

After setting down his notebook with a frustrated sigh, Simon reached for the telephone and dialed Nick’s number.

Recently, Nick had been going through a rough patch with his wife, and where Simon would have talked the ear off anyone who would listen if he were in a similar situation, Nick was the opposite and required a bit of prodding before saying what was on his mind, preferring to keep to himself. Simon did his best to not press too much, lest he take Nick too far out of his comfort zone.

“Simon,” Nick said on the other end of the line, as a manner of greeting.

“He’s going to fuckin’ marry that girl,” Simon said, apropos of nothing, standing from his chair and beginning to pace around the room that served as his office.

“She has a name,” Nick said carefully. “Amanda, remember? You liked her at one point, if I recall correctly.”

“I still do,” Simon corrected, looking out the window. “She’s not all bad.”

“Mmhmm,” Nick hummed on the other side of the phone. “I’m doing fine, by the way.”

“Shit. I’m sorry. How _are_ you doing?”

“Fine. I literally just said,” Nick answered, and Simon didn’t know whether to laugh or reach through the phone and throttle him. “This doesn’t have anything to do with their recent announcement, does it?” Simon furrowed his brow, attempting to recall what news John may have recently dropped on his lap about him and Amanda. Nothing immediately sprung to mind. The last they’d talked, they’d been moving in together. It was a few seconds before Nick let out a muffled curse. “Bugger. Okay. You _need_ to call John.”

“What the hell is going on?” Simon asked, suddenly feeling frustrated about clearly being kept in the dark about something. “Also, I’m not done with you yet. Do you need anything?”

“Just … call John. All right? I’ll smack him later. Then you can help me drown my feelings in alcohol.”

.     .     .

“Pregnant,” Simon repeated, his voice sounding far away, sitting opposite John in a pub that they’d been going to for years, one of the few places where if they were recognized, no one bothered them.

“Yeah,” John replied, finger dancing along the rim of his pint glass, eyes downcast. He eventually lifted his head after a moment, meeting Simon’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Charlie.”

The news, by all rights, was good news. John and Amanda had been getting along splendidly over the past year, he was clearly crazy about her. She was good for him, even if they fed off one another when it came to their partying ways. Everyone was happy for them, including Simon who had accepted months previous that he and John were quickly becoming a footnote in each other’s histories once more. Allegedly, John had attempted to breach the subject of his and Simon’s relationship with Amanda, and she hadn’t reacted favourably to the implication of what her boyfriend and his friend had been getting up to. John didn’t press the matter, so neither had Simon. They didn’t discuss their futures anymore, nor did they allude much to the past. It hurt far too much.

Though Simon had figured that John and Amanda might eventually get married, for some reason hearing that Amanda was pregnant seemed more like the final nail in the coffin than anything else that could have happened. Simon felt like a hypocrite, considering he had Yasmin had one daughter, with another on the way. But his kids hadn’t changed his relationship with John in the slightest. He feared that John’s would, because his girlfriend already had.

“Don’t apologize,” Simon said, though he had appreciated the gesture. “There’s nothing for you to apologize for. Doesn’t have to be serious, remember?”

“I feel like I let you down,” John said. “Like I let _us_ down. We were supposed to be forever. I _wanted_ us to be. But Amanda -”

“Please don’t blame the outcome of our relationship on the relationship you have with your girlfriend. It’s not fair to her, you, or me,” Simon interrupted, leaning back in his chair and taking a drink from his pint. “It’s not like the last time. There are no hard feelings. In the end, what we want isn’t feasible. What you have with Amanda? That is. If you love her, Johnny, don’t let her go.”

“I do,” John said. “I do love her. _So much_. But I love you too. But now she’s pregnant? Any hope I may have had that you and I could have something again seems to have gone out the window.” John sighed, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair. “I just wish that everyone could’ve gotten what they wanted.”

“Me too,” Simon muttered ruefully, and he hated the jealousy in his voice in that moment. He wished that Amanda could have been as understanding as Yasmin, but he knew that it wasn’t fair to expect that of her. It was evident that John wasn’t entirely happy with the fact that he and Simon had once again been relegated back to friends and bandmates, but it was clearly what the universe and its greater plan had in mind for them. There was no point in fighting it, or getting upset about it. “It was fun while it last though, wasn’t it?”

John chuckled, thankful for the air of playfulness that still remained between them, even given the gravity of the conversation. Simon regretted asking John to meet him at the pub, wishing he had known what the conversation they needed to have would be. Being members of polite society dictated how they needed to act, lest they find their pictures on the front of The Sun the following day. It also helped to keep their emotions in check, which for better or worse, helped them to remain as calm as possible. “Yeah. It was great this time around. That’s sort of why I figured that we might have a chance this time.”

“Nothing lasts forever,” Simon said, smiling at John as he finished his pint and moved to stand. “Listen, I gotta take off. I was talking to Nick earlier and I told him -”

“One last time,” John interrupted.

“... Pardon?”

John pushed his half consumed pint of beer aside, stood up and leaned over the table, pressing his palms against the hardwood, brushing his lips against Simon’s ear. “Take me to bed one last time,” he spoke in a harsh whisper, and Simon immediately felt his body react as it tended to when the proximity of John Taylor was the reason. “I want to savour it. Remember it. Not like those last times that we _thought_ were our last times. Seems like this is our curtain call.”

“Johnny -”

“Simon. Please.”

Simon, much to his own frustration, had never been capable of resisting John’s pleas.

.     .     .

John’s place was in a state of disarray, having been neglected by both of its occupants. Amanda because she was frequently spending time with her mother since discovering that she was pregnant, John because there was an album being worked on and he couldn’t focus on much else when in the studio it seemed. It didn’t bother Simon, he wasn’t there to inspect the cleanliness of his friend’s home. Rather, he suspected that there wouldn’t be much of it that he would be seeing - just the bedroom would be fine with him.

Amanda was at her mother’s which meant Simon didn’t need to think twice about shoving John against the nearest flat surface, hands fisted in John’s shirt, lips attacking John’s with fervor. Groaning as he was all but slammed against the wall just outside his bedroom, John tangled his fingers in Simon’s hair, pulling just hard enough on the strands to have Simon’s hips bowing toward him in anticipation of what was to come.

They hadn’t spoken much since leaving the pub, and Simon was glad of it, not entirely trusting his words or his voice. Knowing that this was, for all intents and purposes, the end in some capacity between them made his heart feel as if it were already shattered. Acknowledging it threatened to have every emotion he’d ever felt for the man he was with to come rushing out in a not all too glamourous way. So as a result, few words had been spoken.

Simon pulled back, fingers already fumbling with the buttons on John’s shirt, breath shuddering out of him. John busied himself with buckle on Simon’s belt, his hands trembling. With a frustrated and pained sounding noise, he suddenly stopped, head bowed. Simon’s fingers immediately stilled on the third button of John’s shirt, and he looked in concern at his friend’s lowered head.

“Johnny?”

“We’re rushing,” John answered, his breathing shallow as his hands moved from Simon’s belt over the expanse of his chest. “I don’t want to rush this time. I want to remember everything.”

“We don’t have to rush,” Simon said, hands moving from John’s chest to frame his face. “Hey. Look at me. I’m not going _anywhere_ , and neither are you. I’m not letting you out of my life. I promised, remember? No, we’re not going to be able to have _this_ anymore, but that doesn’t mean that I’m letting you go.”

When John finally lifted his head, it felt as if an arrow had pierced Simon’s heart upon seeing the tears welling in his friend’s eyes. To say that they’d never shed a tear in the presence of one another wouldn’t be true, but they’d often been tears of frustration and anger in the early days of the band. Rarely had it been due to sadness, and never had it been because of the end of their time together. Any tears that had been shed as a result of the other had been done so in secret, hidden away from any prying eyes.

“We’ll take our time tonight,” Simon whispered, leaning and brushing his lips against John’s cheek. “I won’t leave until you ask me to.”

“I’d have you stay forever,” John retorted, leaning in and pressing his forehead against Simon’s, eyelids fluttering shut.

“And I would stay,” Simon said, brushing his lips delicately against John’s. “In a heartbeat.”

Their lips met once more, with the same passion and fervor as before, simply not as hurried. Simon’s hand wrapped lovingly around John’s throat, applying just the slightest bit of pressure, and John gasped enough to grant Simon’s sweeping tongue access to his mouth. The attention that John had been paying to Simon’s belt resumed, and he pushed them away from the wall and into the nearby bedroom.

Daylight was beginning to give way to night, and in the twilight and familiarity of the room, Simon guided them toward John’s bed. John, to Simon’s surprise, suddenly took the reigns, shoving Simon down onto the bed, his long legs hanging over the edge. He moved to get up, but John grabbed at his shoulders and pushed him back down, and Simon was unable to keep the grin from spreading across his face. Simon anxiously awaited John to join him on the bed, but he didn’t, instead kneeling on the floor between Simon’s legs, nimble fingers reaching once more for his belt.

“You still haven’t gotten that thing undone yet?” Simon teased, reaching down and threading his fingers through John’s dark hair.

“Taking my time,” John replied without missing a beat, finally pulling Simon’s belt from the loops on his trousers. “Which is what I thought we agreed to?” he asked, glancing up at Simon through dark lashes and smirking, fingers making quick work of the zipper.

“Don’t get any ideas. Slowness does not equate to teasing.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Simon lifted his hips from the edge of the bed as John reached up, hooking his fingers through the suddenly empty belt loops of Simon’s pants, tugging them down over his legs. Trousers discarded of, John smoothed his roughened palms over Simon’s thighs, relishing in the resulting gasp that the sensation awarded him. He coaxed Simon closer to the edge of the bed, and grabbed at the waistband of Simon’s shorts, yanking them free of Simon’s body, revelling in the sight of his half hard cock. Swallowing thickly, Simon closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, before raising himself up onto his elbows so that he could look down at John, who was leaning in to press a kiss to the inside of Simon’s thigh.

“Remember the first time I sucked your cock?” John asked, looking up at Simon, his hands moving over Simon’s thighs once more.

It wasn’t as funny as Simon’s laugh might have suggested, but he had been caught off guard by the question, certainly not expecting it with John on his knees in front of him. “How could I forget?” Simon replied, pushing John’s hair away from his face. “You fuckin’ choked on it."

“It’s big!” John said, chuckling softly. “And I had - surprise, surprise - a few too many that night, and no bloody idea what I was doing.”

“You know now,” Simon complimented. “Or, at least you did a year ago.”

“Can’t be the sort of thing that you forget how to do,” John said, resting his cheek against the inside of Simon’s thigh. “Much like riding a bicycle I would think.”

“Jesus. Do not compare sucking my cock to riding a bicycle.”

John rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, before returning his attentions to Simon’s body, wanting and pliant in front of him. Still planted firmly on Simon’s legs, John’s hands began their ascent upward, over strong, muscled thighs. His breath hitching in anticipation, Simon arched toward John’s touch, only to have John’s fingers brush against his hips ever so slightly. Simon busied himself with pulling off his t-shirt while John’s lips began to follow the path mapped out by his hands, leaving a trail of kisses and love bites in their wake. Simon’s hands once more found themselves tangled in John’s hair, attempting to urge his mouth, those full lips just a little closer. Hands brushing over Simon’s stomach, John’s warm mouth kissed and teased at the skin of Simon’s inner thigh, his cock twitching in anticipation, wishing that John would just get on with already, but simultaneously relishing in the attention being paid to him, in the feeling of drawing out the promise of what was to come.

“Johnny. Please,” Simon rasped, desperation apparent in his voice, hips bowing off the bed.

Simon could feel John’s shudder once the words tumbled past his lips, watched as his eyelids fluttered closed, his attentions to Simon’s body stilling for the moment. Simon inhaled shakily and though he didn’t intend on it, felt himself holding his breath in anticipation, as John’s hands came to rest on Simon’s thighs, grasping a little more firmly, as if to hold him steady.

 _A year._ It had been over a year since John and Amanda had begun dating, since Simon and John agreed to take a pause in their own relationship. Simon wished he had known then what he did then; that so long as John and Amanda were together, that he and John could not be. He doubted he would’ve said anything to sway the other man to choose him - to choose them - but would have perhaps have ended things when it had originally been a conversation. The moment felt far too bittersweet, and though Simon’s loins were burning for the man on the knees in front of him, his heart ached at the prospect of losing John yet again, feeling like they had just gotten back together, like they had just begun to figure it all out.

The breath that Simon had been holding rushed out of him as John’s lips closed around the head of his cock, tongue dragging slightly along the underside. A moan that sounded much too loud in his own ears tumbled out after that held breath, and Simon tugged gently at John’s hair in appreciation of the attention being lavished upon him. Clearly spurred on by the sounds that escaped Simon’s lips, John took more of him into his mouth, letting out a low, appreciative moan, which reverberated through Simon’s entire body, causing his hips to arch carefully off the edge of the bed, wanting so much more of John’s warm and wet mouth around him.

When they’d first started fooling around in the eighties, they’d both been so damn terrified of everything, not wanting to fuck anything up, just a little bit confused. That night of their first kiss in a hotel room in New York had been just that - a kiss. They had ended up sleeping together in the same bed, not really talking, but revelling in the presence of the other. The rushed handjobs backstage, the makeout sessions in whatever dark room they could find, the sometimes awkward but also life altering blowjobs … it had all felt strange at first. But for Simon, at least, it had all evolved into something that felt so unbelievably right.

Simon lamented at reminiscing of the past decade of their affair, when he should be focused in the moment. And like John, he wanted to commit every single detail to memory. He wanted to be able to recall every moment of their last time together for the rest of his life.

John had never been able to fit the entire length of Simon’s cock in his mouth, which certainly made Simon’s ego that much more inflated. Too long, John had told him. That night, John seemed to be trying, as if he didn’t want to miss out on something, knowing that he could never have it again. Simon wasn’t about to act as if the notion of John deep throating him wasn’t positively delicious, but the last thing that he wanted was to have their night cut short because he had come far too quickly.

“John,” Simon rasped, fingers threading slowly through John’s hair, kneading his scalp. He tipped his head back, breathing already shallow, a low moan reverberating throughout the bedroom. “Stop.”

Simon thought that John looked almost offended, until it dawned on him that it was shock at having been told to stop. His brow furrowed, John pulled back, Simon’s cock falling from his lips, and sat back on his knees, fingers still digging slightly into Simon’s thighs, looking up at him expectantly.

“C’mere,” Simon coaxed, crooking a finger at him. “I want to feel all of you tonight. Not just that mouth of yours.”

Moving to stand up, John pulled his shirt off, chucking it somewhere across the room as held Simon’s gaze. Simon shuffled back on the bed slightly, got more comfortable, unable to tear his eyes from John’s as the other man kicked his pants off and climbed onto the bed. John kissed his way up the length of Simon’s body, from the warm patch of skin below his belly button all the way up to his chin, eventually pressing his lips against Simon’s as he settled on top of him. Their bodies both warm from the passion that had been building between them, and the warmth from the beers shared in the pub earlier, John’s bed felt an inferno with the two of them in the center of it. Legs tangled with Simon’s, John swept his fingers over the expanse of Simon’s cheek, kissing him lightly.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words getting lapped up by Simon’s eager tongue.

“I love you too,” Simon replied in kind, tucking John’s hair behind his ear as he wrapped his arms around him, hauling him closer. “I always will.”

John hummed, in agreement and in contentment, as Simon held onto him tightly and rolled them over, pressing John back against the mattress. Hooking a leg over Simon’s hip, drawing them closer, John shifted beneath him and kissed along his jaw. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m sorry that we couldn’t -”

“What have I told you about apologizing?” Simon asked, drawing back enough to look into John’s eyes. “There is nothing for you to apologize for. I’m not going to be angry with you for the life you’ve chosen.”

“I just wish she understood,” John lamented, hand rubbing affectionately at Simon’s arm.

“But she doesn’t. And that’s okay,” Simon said, bumping his nose against John’s. “If I recall correctly, you’re the one who said that it didn’t have to be serious.”

John chuckled ruefully, eyes crinkling at the edges. “We should’ve known better.”

“Yeah. Maybe we should have,” Simon added with a sad smile. “Don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Inhaling deeply, John curled his hands at the base of Simon’s skull, raising his own head to kiss the other man firmly on the mouth. Simon wished that it didn’t feel so final, that it didn’t feel as if it were their last night on earth together. They were still friends, still bandmates - before everything else that they had been that. John wasn’t leaving him, never to be seen or heard from again, but the feeling of finality wouldn’t go away. Simon wished that it would.

They spent more time than they ever had before just kissing and touching one another, hands smoothed over bodies, committing patch of skin, every dusting of hair, every scar that they’d acquired from being foolish when they were younger, every smattering of freckles, to memory. Both aching with want, Simon and John pushed themselves and each other to the brink, crying out in desperation and frustration, drawing back from it as quickly as they reached it, wanting to draw out their night together for as long as possible. Simon’s fingers and tongue probed John’s body with deliberate slowness, taking his time, taking a great deal of pleasure in watching his friend and lover writhe on the bed, incapable of coherent speech, arching and bowing toward him, frantic with need. There came a point, when it dawned on them both, that they couldn’t remain in John’s bed forever.

“Simon,” John gasped, breathless and pliant, body covered with a thin sheen of sweat, hands clutching at Simon’s arms. “Fuck me.”

His breath shuddering out of him, Simon nodded, his face buried in the crook of John’s neck. With a great deal of reluctance, John pushed Simon off of him, rolling to the edge of the bed to rifle through the drawer in his bedside to retrieve a condom. In even the mundane moments, such as John rolling away from him, moving objects around in his drawer, Simon did his best to not take his eyes off of him, not wanting to miss even for a moment the beauty that was the way in which John’s body shifted. When John maneuvered back toward him, handing him the condom, Simon swooped down to kiss him, nipping gently at his bottom lip, John sighing quietly and reverently in response to the gentle affections bestowed upon him.

Condom on, Simon moved up onto his knees, grabbed John’s legs and hauled him closer. John let out a surprised noise at the manhandling, though Simon knew that he loved it. Simon pulled John’s legs over his hips, fingers digging into the flesh of his thighs as he leaned over him. John licked at his lips and swallowed, wriggling against Simon’s body, not wanting to be kept waiting.

Fingers grasping at the sheets beneath him for purchase, John whined, back arching off of the bed as Simon pressed into him slowly. Simon inhaled sharply and closed his eyes, delighting in the tightness of John’s body around him. John’s legs around Simon’s body tightened, trying to bring himself closer, his hands gripping at the blankets beneath them for purchase, fingers tearing into the fabric.

“Simon,” he gasped, head tilted back, eyes shut tight as he gave himself over to the pleasure.

“Johnny,” Simon breathed, his hands moving over John’s chest, one eventually closing gently over his throat. “Open your eyes, love.” Doing as he was told, John’s eyes opened slowly, gazing up at Simon through heavy lids. Smiling, Simon smoothed a palm over John’s cheek, and John tilted his head toward the touch, still never breaking eye contact. “Better,” he murmured, heart swelling as John smiled blissfully up at him.

They moved together in a rhythm that they had perfected over the years, one that always had them both crying out for more. Simon leaned over John’s body until he was on top of him, ravishing his lips with slow kisses and a hungry tongue, delving into his mouth as his cock pressed further home inside of John’s body. Simon wanted to go slow, and it was evident that John wanted to as well, but what their bodies wanted and craved wasn’t always up to them, and after hours of caressing and kissing there wasn’t much time to be given.

“Fuck,” Simon rasped against John’s ear, the rhythm of his hips betraying him, John’s sharp cry a sign that he too wanted it to last longer, that he longed for it to not be over just yet. One of John’s hands scrabbled at Simon’s back, the other reaching between their bodies so he could fist his own cock in his hand as Simon fucked him. “John -”

John barely lasted another moment, a cry wrenched from his lips that sounded to Simon as tantalizing as it did heart breaking. John’s body clenched around him, and Simon came soon after with a shout muffled into John’s shoulder, hips bucking against John’s ass, toes curling against the mattress.

It was over far too quickly.

In the afterglow of their lovemaking, they simply laid where they had fallen. John back against the mattress, Simon on top of him. Simon rested his head against John’s chest, listening to the furious fluttering of his heart behind his ribcage. Hands smoothing over John’s body, still trembling from his release, Simon finally allowed himself to close his eyes, to relish in feeling instead of sight. He found his hands clutching, grasping at John’s body, as if willing him to stay, not wanting to let him go, not wanting what they had to be over.

“We’re always going to want more time,” John whispered, as one of his hands moved through Simon’s hair, as if reading his ex-lover’s mind. “But I’m glad we had the time together that we did.”

“I’m supposed to be the one with the flowery words,” Simon teased, chuckling softly, fearing that if he didn’t laugh that he might cry.

They laid together for some time, fingers tracing patterns against bare skin, lips staking claim wherever they could. The bittersweetness of the moment could not be ignored. But they couldn’t deny that the time had come for them to both move on - from the mattress in John’s room and from each other. There was a world beyond John’s bedroom, and though they’d ignored it for the evening, it was time to go back to it. They couldn’t delay the reality any longer.

John watched from his bed, sheets pulled up to his chest as Simon searched for his clothes - something that he had done many times before. The scenario was familiar, and for a moment it didn’t feel as if this might be the last time. But the pang in his heart reminded him that it was. Fully dressed, Simon turned toward John, who had moved from the bed to him. Wrapping his arms around Simon, John gave him a light kiss, whispering that he would see him tomorrow at the studio.

It already felt as if their relationship had become a distant memory.

.     .     .

 **1993  
** _Los Angeles_

The warmth of the California sun had never ceased to feel as invigorating as it was comforting, and John was glad that at least one of the band’s shows at let him a few days in the city that he now found himself calling home, originally at Amanda’s request, though he was now glad for it. They were only halfway through the tour, with many months left to go, and John felt his nerves fraying - both from what seemed like the endless slog of touring, and from a family life that he was missing out on.

While Simon, Nick, and Warren became acquainted with their lodgings at the hotel a few blocks from the venue, John went home. It didn’t occur to him to open his home to his friends, and they would have likely refused anyway, wanting to give John time with his family. Expecting the warm greeting of a loving wife and young daughter, John was instead met with silence, and stepped into his own home tentatively, unable to shake the feeling that he was somehow trespassing, eyes casting about glances, waiting for someone to come out of anywhere to greet him.

Duran Duran had gone on the road starting earlier that year, playing to sold out crowds once more in support of their latest album, which had been touted as their comeback. John felt that they had never really gone away, but the press and fans who had grown up and forgotten about them clearly thought otherwise.

Little had changed in the house - Amanda had moved a few pieces of furniture around, Atlanta’s toys discarded throughout the living room as John walked into it. Looking at family pictures on the mantle over the fireplace, it occurred to him how much she’d grown since he’d last seen her. Were children supposed to grow so fast? He had little frame of reference outside the daughters of his friends’, and even then it hadn’t seemed like the kind of thing that he needed to keep track of.

After John set his overnight bag down in the entryway of his home, he moved toward the kitchen to the stack of letters and bills laying in various states on the counter - some opened, some not. There was the usual, bills, letters from friends, letters for Amanda from her agent. There was an entire life happening without John in the home, and he didn’t much care for missing so much of it.

The house felt strange and empty, not simply because his family wasn’t there, but because he wasn’t. John had thought that his homecoming would feel more welcoming, but it was almost as if the house itself didn’t want him there. It felt as barren and devoid of feeling as the number of flats he’d kept when he’d been a bachelor. Even with Amanda and Atlanta being had, he had anticipated his own house making him feel at home. Instead, he felt as if he was not welcome.

The door opened and John turned, smiling as Amanda walked in, Atlanta in her arms. Surprise and happiness registered across his wife’s face, and she dropped the bags that she was carrying to rush over to him, pulling him into a one-armed hug, balancing their daughter in her arms. “I thought that you weren’t getting in until later,” she said, kissing him on the cheek and passing Atlanta to him. “I would’ve made a point to be home had I known.”

“Thought I’d stop by before heading to rehearsal,” John said, as Atlanta cooed and grabbed at his shirt.

“Stop by? Don’t be foolish. This is your home.”

_Then why doesn’t it feel like it?_

.     .     .

Warren was playing riffs from _Ordinary World_ while Simon hummed along, keeping time by tapping his foot on the floor. John had felt solemn and morose after going home to see his wife and daughter, and had taken the edge off with a couple of lines before showing up to the rehearsal at the venue. He kept mostly to himself, idly plucking away at his bass on the other side of the stage while Simon, Nick, and Warren went over the setlist and worked through tightening up anything that hadn’t sounded so great the previous show. Eventually, Nick called John over, and he was forced to join his bandmates and attempt engaging conversation, when it was honestly the last thing that he felt like doing.

Afterward, with the rest of the band getting ready to head back to the hotel, John lingered behind in the green room, unsure of what he wanted to do with himself. He wanted to go back to his home, but felt unwelcome there, even if Amanda had assured him time and time again that afternoon that he certainly was. He hadn’t dwelled too much on the topic, not wanting to arrive home only to have a row with his wife, but John had certainly mentioned it. Amanda chalked it up to him having been away for so long. That didn’t feel quite right, but John reluctantly agreed.

“Johnny?”

Looking up to the doorway, John was shocked to see Simon standing there, almost looking as if he were as lost as John felt.

The past couple of years had not been easy on them, but they had tried harder than they had ever tried before to maintain a friendship. It didn’t come without its hurdles, both of them clearly still so desperately in love with one another, but unable to do anything about it. John had promised Amanda when he married her that his and Simon’s relationship was a thing of the past, and he never intended to go back on that vow. Simon, respecting that as much as outsider in another person’s relationship could, never made a move on him, even if John secretly wished that he would. But Simon was a good man, and John knew that there was no way that it would ever happen.

“Hey,” John said, forcing a smile and running a hand through his hair.

“You okay, mate?” Simon asked, bridging the gap between the doorway and the couch that John was sitting on with one step at a time. “I figured you’d be long gone, home with Amanda and Atlanta by now.”

John shrugged, sniffing a little. “I thought so too.”

For a moment, Simon clearly thought that John was on the verge of tears with the amount of sniffing that he was doing. It was only when he drew closer that he realized otherwise, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Really, Johnny? I thought you gave that up.”

John, who found that he couldn’t lie to Simon about anything, didn’t even try. “It’s been a strange day.”

Simon sat down next to John on the couch, and picked at a hangnail on his thumb, waiting for John to say something. They’d gotten used to sitting in silence together, waiting for the other to say whatever was on their mind. John figured when you’d been through as much together as they had that all one had to do was wait until the other was comfortable enough to say something. It didn’t take long before John found the words that he’d been searching for.

“Do you ever feel like your home isn’t yours?” he finally asked, glancing over at Simon.

Not the question he had been expecting, John realized after observing the look on Simon’s face.

“This is not my beautiful house? This is not my beautiful wife?” Simon asked, and John found himself smiling just a little bit at the Talking Heads reference. “Sometimes it feels strange, when we’re away for so long. Life goes on without you. Yaz has a life that doesn’t include me, she has to in order to keep herself from going mad when I’m on the road. Sometimes it takes a few moments for the kids to recognize me.” Simon leaned back on the couch, inhaling deeply. “But my home feeling like it’s not mine? Like I’m not welcome there? No. I can’t say I’ve ever felt that.”

Not what John wanted to hear. Simon was instantly aware of that.

“That is clearly not the answer that you were looking for. Is everything okay?” Simon asked, turning slightly so that he could face John. “With you and Amanda?”

John closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the couch. “I don’t know. I think so. Things don’t feel as if they’re _not_ okay, y’know? It just doesn’t feel how I thought that it would. I haven’t seen her in months, and she’s just a few kilometres away. I should be rushing at the chance to get home and see her and Bean, spend as much time with them as possible before we kick off again. And yet … I can’t bring myself to go home. Because it doesn’t feel like my home.”

“Are you sure it doesn’t have anything to do with what you snorted to take the edge of the day off?” Simon asked. There was the tiniest bit of judgement in Simon’s voice, and John did his best to not feel cross or betrayed by it. He didn’t blame Simon in the slightest for it, he knew that he should be better. In recent years the cocaine had become a crutch. He certainly wasn’t as heavily into it as he had been in the eighties, but during times in which reality became just a little too much to handle, he leaned on it and booze to help him get through. Sometimes it worked, a lot of the time it didn’t.

“Maybe,” John finally replied, looking down at the floor. “I should just go home, shouldn’t I?”

“Yeah, mate,” Simon replied. “You should. Spend some time with your family. You could just be feeling this way because you haven’t seen them in so long. The feeling will wear off once you get settled.”

John wasn’t so sure, but he appreciated Simon’s optimism all the same. “Thanks, Charlie,” he said, pushing himself up from the couch. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Simon offered him a small smile, and John could’ve sworn he saw a twinge of sadness in it. “See you tomorrow.”

.     .     .

Amanda laid next to him, sound asleep. John, on the other hand, remained as wide awake as one possibly could be. He felt frayed and useless, simply wanting submit to slumber and not have to think about anything for a few hours. But his brain wouldn’t shut off no matter how much he desired it to, so he stared up at the ceiling, willing himself to just fall asleep. He rolled over onto his side, hearing fussing on the other end of the baby monitor placed on Amanda’s nightstand. Listening for a moment to determine whether or not Atlanta was merely shifting in her sleep or was waking up, John eventually got up from the bed, leaving his bedroom and making his way to his daughter’s.

“You can sense things, can’t you, Bean?” he asked her sometime later as they sat in the rocker in her room together. Eventually, she fell back asleep his arms. Instead of putting her back in her crib, John got comfortable and eventually exhaustion got the better of him, and he fell asleep slumped in a rocking chair with his daughter in his arms.

.     .     .

The show had gone well, just as the band had anticipated, though John wouldn’t be able to recall specific details about it, having snuck into a bathroom before they were set to go on stage to do a few lines of coke. He had started his day by getting into a row with Amanda, though he couldn’t remember what had actually prompted the fight. The end result had been her not coming to the concert, which for better or worse meant that John spent the night cross that she wouldn’t be waiting in the wings for him once the show ended. He wasn’t entirely certain that he wanted her there, but at the same felt desperate for her.

Just as he always did, when something became too much to handle he pushed back, but never in effective way. Instead of attempting to smooth things over with Amanda, it seemed much easier to just push her away, at least for the time being. At least until John had sorted out all of his thoughts about why his home didn’t feel like a home, why everything about his marriage and family life made him feel so uneasy.

With the show over, and the band adjourning to the mingling backstage, John looked around, hoping that Amanda was there waiting for him. But, true to her word, she wasn’t, and his heart sank at how foolish he had been to assume that she would’ve been there. Rubbing at his temples, John closed his eyes, a picture of stress in the midst of what was supposed to be a good time. From behind him, someone grabbed his wrist and pulled him away from all of the mingling, and into a dark alcove not too far away from the stage.

“You should see yourself right now,” Simon said angrily, as John registered his friend’s face in the darkness. “You’re a bloody mess, and you have been all bleedin’ day. What’s going on with you?”

In that moment, it occurred to John that Simon wouldn’t understand. He had Yasmin, who was by all accounts the perfect wife, and two daughters who adored him. There was no possible way that he could understand what John was going through with Amanda.  

“Fuck off,” John muttered, pushing at Simon’s chest. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh no. We are absolutely not doing this,” Simon said, grabbing at John’s wrists as the other man attempted to push him away. “That may have flown in the eighties when we were young and fucking, but we’re neither anymore. I’m worried about you, and you’re going to let me help you.”

“I don’t need any bloody help,” John huffed, turning his head.

“Don’t,” Simon said sternly, still holding John’s wrists. “You don’t get to ask for my help with something yesterday and then today act as if everything is okay when everything is clearly not.” John relaxed a little in Simon’s grip, though he still refused to meet the older man’s eyes, face locked in a scowl. “Talk to me, Johnny. There was a time when we told each other everything.”

“Our relationship was a little different then,” John said, turning his head to look at Simon. “If I recall correctly, the only time that I was ever able to give you total honesty is when we were bonking.”

“And why did that have to change?” Simon asked, tilting his head slightly. “I let you take the reigns with our relationship this time, and I know that hasn’t been easy on you. Don’t think that I don’t know how you feel - I do. But right now this isn’t about me - or even us - it’s about _you_.”

John _hated_ it when things were about him. He especially hated it when Simon was so clearly pained about something, and he was ultimately the root cause of it. He didn’t deserve someone like Simon in his life - someone who could always be counted on, someone who was constantly looking out for him when he should’ve been doing it himself. Even when John was in a self destructive mode, Simon was there to guide him toward sensibility.

Simon eventually freed John’s wrists of his grasp, trusting him not to run away. And while John was glad for the trust, he missed the contact almost instantly. Simon was forever tactile, and that hadn’t lessened in any capacity since they’d ended their relationship, but with his touches no longer being a constant, John found himself missing them whenever they were suddenly taken away.

“I’m not sure what to make of things with Amanda right now,” John eventually offered, rubbing at his wrist. “We got into a row this morning. I don’t even remember what about. I don’t think it’s important. I feel … angry with her. Through no fault of her own. None of this is how I envisioned it. My wife feels like a stranger, I don’t feel like I belong in my own home. Part of me wants to work through it, another part of me doesn’t. I’m not sure which side I want to be on.”

“The coke probably isn’t helping.”

“Oh, fuck off,” John practically hissed. “I don’t need that sort of judgement from you.”

“It’s not judgement,” Simon insisted. “I just … remember what it was like. To be someone who wanted all of your heart, and instead of you dealing with your feelings you retreated and got into bed with cocaine instead. It was frustrating to try and connect with you, to try and make things right, when the last thing you wanted to do was to acknowledge that there was even a problem. It was best to just push me away instead.”

“Are you saying that you’re on Amanda’s side of this?” John asked, furrowing his brow, unable to help from feeling betrayed by Simon’s words.

“I wasn’t aware that there was a side to be on,” Simon replied, leaning back against the wall. “All I am saying is that I understand how she feels, and where her anger might be coming from. I don’t doubt that she loves you, John. But you’re not giving her your all right now, when you should be, and she doesn’t know how to react to that. Lord knows I didn’t.”

“I thought you said that this was about me,” John said, crossing his arms over his chest. “So far it sounds like it’s about Amanda and you.”

“Fucks sake, Johnny,” Simon said harshly, rolling his eyes. “Can you stop being so blockheaded for maybe five minutes?” Simon’s tone startled John slightly - it wasn’t often that he got cross, and it had been years since he had been cross at John. The pit at the bottom of his stomach still felt the same, and he regretted everything he’d said that might have lead them to this conversation, to that tone in Simon’s voice. “Do you want to save your marriage or not?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you need to figure that out first. I can’t help you with that.”

They stood there in silence for a moment, John biting at the inside of his cheek, Simon regarding him quietly, hands in the pockets of his trousers. “I really don’t know what to do here,” John said softly.

“I can’t help you to make a decision,” Simon said with a sigh, and John knew that Simon wished that he could. “You know what’s in your heart, not me.”

“That’s not true,” John said, shaking his head. “And you know it. You know exactly what’s in my heart.”

Simon smiled fondly, biting at his bottom lip. He bridged the gap between them and pulled John into his arms, giving him the reassuring hug that he was certain the other man needed. And he was right. John all but melted into Simon’s embrace, clutching the other man tightly, pressing his face into his shoulder. “Besides me? No. I don’t.”

“Oh, Charlie,” John sighed, holding Simon tight. “Is it supposed to be this hard?”

“Sometimes,” Simon replied. “Nothing worth having or fighting for ever came easy.”

They stood there together a moment, simply holding one another. What John would have given for things to be just a little different. He wasn’t about to do anything foolish, but he wished that he might. How easy it would be to find comfort in Simon that evening. But he wouldn’t. That wouldn’t have been fair to either of them, and certainly not fair to Amanda.

“John?”

A soft, familiar voice had John and Simon pulling away from one another to cast a glance to their right, where Amanda was standing. She smiled hopefully, looking at her husband, and John relinquished his hold on Simon to sweep her into his arms. They whispered apologies to one another, both declaring themselves foolish for their disagreement earlier that day. John’s heart swelled, and he was thankful for it, happy to have a signal that he’d been so desperately craving over the past 48 hours.

When John turned to let Amanda and Simon greet one another, he was disappointed to find that Simon had already left.

.     .     .

 **1995  
** _London_

“What do you mean he’s gone?”

Simon didn’t feel particularly graceful having all but shouted the question at Warren and Nick, who glanced at one another before turning to look at back at their frontman. He’d been back in London less than a week, having returned from a vacation in Jamaica with Yasmin and the girls, and suddenly felt as if he could use some more time away. However, the problem at hand was that they were in the midst of recording, and suddenly found themselves without a bass player, John having departed for Los Angeles hours before without so much as a word to Simon about it.

Trying to check his emotions, Simon took a deep breath and left the room, much to the confusion of Nick and Warren, who had been about to tell him where John had gone. Simon stood outside the doorway and closed his eyes, reminding himself of the less than stellar years that had gone by. John had been to rehab, had separated from Amanda, and was embarking on a side project with some friends from LA. Simon had been all for it - wanting John to do whatever it was that made him happy. He wouldn’t have admitted it had anyone asked, but Simon had hoped with John and Amanda’s impending divorce that John would find himself back Simon’s way. As selfish as it was, it didn’t stop Simon from wanting it. But it hadn’t happened, and Simon wasn’t about to push it, not when so much was going with the band and everyone personally.

Their last album, a cover album in which they paid tribute to some of their favourite artists and songs, had not been well received, making their latest effort that much more important. Simon was frustrated that they’d followed up their alleged comeback with something that was received so dismally by critics and their fans. Some of the tracks he hadn’t been comfortable recording the vocals for, but John and Warren were adamant they be included on the album. Nick and Warren were presently both frustrated with Simon, who was struggling creatively, and everyone was frustrated with John, who was treating the band as something fast and loose, while working on solo material and forming another band that seemed to be taking up most of his time, as well as working with The Power Station once more.

It felt like everything was working against them, and Simon felt as if they were losing John.

Simon entered the room once more, after having collected himself, and decided to try again. “What do you mean John’s left?” he asked, his voice a bit more level.

“He said the bass tracks were done, Charlie. He said he didn’t have any reason to stick around,” Nick replied in a droll tone, clearly beyond caring at this point. “Gone back to Los Angeles.

“ _Are_ the bass tracks done?” Simon asked, furrowing his brow.

“No,” Nick replied, rolling his eyes.

“Fucks sake.”

“Most of them are,” Warren interjected in an attempt to save a man who wasn’t there to save himself, as Simon rubbed his forehead and began pacing the room. “I mean, some of them may require a bit more work, and we’ll need to get him back for whatever material you haven’t finished yet -”

“He’s not coming back,” Simon interrupted, ceasing in his pacing and looking at Nick and Warren. Nick remained expressionless, Warren had the decency to at least try to feign looking shocked. “Whatever tracks he’s yet to do, or will need to, it doesn’t matter. He won’t be back.”

.     .     .

Another crumpled up ball of paper joined the many others on the floor by the wastebasket in Simon’s office. He would eventually have to get up and move them all to the wastebasket (which he missed constantly) lest Yasmin cluck her tongue at him about the mess, despite it being _his_ office. He hadn’t been able to write anything decent in months and was becoming frustrated, much as Nick and Warren were. They didn’t say much, but Simon could tell it from how short Nick was with him.

Simon had known for a few years that it was only a matter of time before they - and he - lost John. It wasn’t as much of a surprise as it should have been, but that didn’t mean that it hurt any less. And while John hadn’t said anything to any of them, the writing was on the wall. He was present less and less, in Los Angeles working on solo material and with a new band that he had assured Nick that was just something to fill the time between writing, recording, and tours with Duran. It hadn’t been the case.

Nick was cross to the point where he didn’t really speak about it, or to John anymore, leaving Warren and Simon to act as liaisons. Simon understood - Nick and John had started the band so many years ago, and it now seemed as if it were truly falling apart. How often would they reach the brink like this, before it ended for certain?

Giving up was easy, enduring all of the hardship was what was difficult.

The phone on Simon’s desk rang, startling him out of his reverie. He reached for it and leaned back in his chair, reaching for a pen with his free hand, idly sketching in the margins of his notebook.

“`Ello.”

“Simon.”

He dropped his pen and sat upright in his chair, the voice on the other end having been quite unexpected. “John.”

John sounded as far away as he felt, and Simon’s hand instinctively went to his heart, as if willing to John to be more present in any way possible. For a long moment there was little more than silence between them, Simon could hear John breathing on the end of the line. Both of them willing the other man to speak first. Simon had no idea what manner of conversation they were about to have, but instinct told him that he wasn’t going to enjoy it.

“You’re not coming back, are you?” Simon finally asked, the response that he knew he would receive filling him with dread.

He heard the sharp intake of breath from beyond the Atlantic Ocean, and pursed his lips together tightly. He resolved that regardless of what John told him that he would not lash out, that wasn’t what John needed from him, from anyone right now. Simon did not think him some manner of fragile doll that needed to be coddled, but he was aware that John was in a strange place, one where he needed the support of all those dear to him. Support was what he needed, not anger, not when tensions were so high, not when so much stood to be lost.

“I don’t know,” came John’s eventual answer. “The past few years have been … hard. And that is the understatement of the year. And I just … need some time to figure out what the hell I’m doing.” Leaning his elbows against his desk, Simon closed his eyes and rubbed at his eye. “I’m sorry, Charlie.”

“Don’t apologize,” Simon whispered, closing his eyes. “I understand. Really, I do. Take your time. We’ll be here if you decide to come back. I hope that you do.”

“I don’t doubt that Nick would have me back, though not without an earful. And Warren just wants to be amiable about everything. But will _you_ ?” Simon opened his eyes, breath stilling. He and John hadn’t spoken about _them_ , in whatever context that meant, in keeping with the ways that they had operated in the past. Longing and desire were best done quietly, feeling as if it were unrequited, even when they both knew how deeply they loved one another. They were both foolish and they knew it. “If I don’t come back, will _you_ still be there?”

Kindness, Simon reminded himself. Kindness was what John needed. Time and understanding. Not judgment, not resentment. All the same, he couldn’t help the pang in his heart that once more what they both wanted didn’t seem feasible. “How long am I meant to be waiting?” Simon asked, exhaling. “How long am I meant to be waiting on bated breath for you to make up your mind about what you want? It’s been nearly five years.”

“Charlie -”

“I’m sorry,” Simon interrupted. “That’s not how I meant it.”

“Then how did you mean it?” John asked after a moment.

“I’m not sure.” Silence between them once more, and Simon leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “Johnny, the boys and I will still be here. We’ll have you back in a heartbeat. You know that. You don’t have to make this final. It’s just a break. That’s all.”

“And us?”

“There stopped being an “us” just before you and Amanda got married, if I recall correctly,” Simon replied. “We had our last night together, and we mourned the loss of what we had. And after a while, I had to stop waiting. It wasn’t good for me, and it wasn’t good for you either. I wouldn’t have been a very good friend if I put your relationship with your wife in jeopardy. And I will always be your friend, and I’m always gonna love you, Johnny. But maybe we were right a long time ago - we can’t keep doing this back and forth. It’s going to kill us both, if it hasn’t a little already. It’s been fifteen years of this. I’m tired, and I know that you are too.”

“I have to know,” John began, still trying to process what Simon had said to him, “if I didn’t come back - to the band, that is - could you and I stand a chance? Without the trappings of the band, without people standing between us, do you think that it could work?”

“It might,” Simon replied, glancing out his office window. “Obviously being in the band together adds to the strain of things. But we had a good run for a few years. There’s that. And you know how Yaz feels about it. But I have to know, Johnny … I can’t wait forever. I’ve waited long enough, and so have you.”

“I can’t give you an answer right now,” John replied, voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know what I want.”

“After all this time,” Simon began, standing from his chair, “and you don’t know what you want? You’re asking me to wait for you, and you can’t even tell me if you even still want me? That’s not fair, Johnny.”

“I know. And I know I’m terrible for asking it of you, but I can’t give you an answer right now,” John replied. “I need more time.”

“We’ve had so much time already,” Simon said softly, fighting to keep his own emotions in check. The last thing he wanted to do was get angry. “You say you love me, you ask me to wait for you, and yet you can’t even tell me if I’m who you even want?”

“It’s complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Simon inhaled deeply, clutching the phone to his ear a little tighter, wishing that he could reach through it, touch John, hold him. “You don’t have to make it complicated, Johnny.”

“It’s not just you, Simon,” John said, sounding tired on the other end of the line. “It’s me. I have to take care of _me_. I need to figure out what it is I’m meant to be doing. I need to figure out what I want. That’s why I can’t give you an answer right now. It’s not fair of me to ask you to wait, all I can do is hope that you might.”

Simon, knowing a stalemate when he was in one, fell back into his chair and rubbed at his temple. “We’re getting nowhere but different places in this circle, Johnny. We’re not being fair to one another. Can we just table this for another time? The band will be here, and so will I, one way or another. Is that enough for you for now? Just tell me that you’ll think about it all, and it’ll be enough for me.”

“Knowing that you and the boys will be there is enough for me,” John answered, and Simon was thankful for the relief that he heard in John’s voice. “Just give me time. That’s all I ask.”

“We’ll be here,” Simon replied. He sighed, twirling the phone cord around his index finger. “Johnny, I love you.”

“I love you too, Charlie.”

Simon managed to set the phone back down in its cradle before succumbing to the emotions that he’d been holding deep down inside of him while on the phone with John, halfway around the world. Emotions he’d pushed deep down, lest he influence John and his decision making in some way. Simon knew what he wanted, but he wasn’t about to push that onto John, not when he needed time. He couldn’t pretend that he entirely understood, but whatever journey that John needed to partake in to feel like the best possible version of himself, Simon would support it. Even if that meant him leaving the band, even if that meant he and John never being together again.

He let his breath shudder out of him, leaning his elbows against his desk, head in his hands. Hadn’t he gotten used to all of this by now? Fifteen years they’d loved and lost one another over and over again - how much more could their friendship take before it became too much, before one of them had enough?

Why could nothing between he and John ever seem to go the way that they wanted it to? Why was there always something standing between them? Everything had been going so well once upon a time, and now once more it all seemed to be thrown into turmoil, leaving them once again at the mercy of things that seemed beyond their control.

Simon did not begrudge John trying to sort his way through his life, trying to put pieces back where he’d found that they had been missing. He only lamented at the unfairness of it all. He wanted John to be happy, feel whole and complete. Selfishly, he did not want to wait. So much of their lives had seemed to be spent in a state of limbo, waiting for the other, waiting for something to happen. Neither of them were getting any younger, how long would they keep up this dance.

“I would wait,” Simon said to himself, rubbing at his eyes and looking down at his notebook. “I’ll always wait for that bloody fool.”

_Because I’m a bloody fool too._

Reaching for his pen, he began scrawling, not certain if what he was writing would turn into something more, but needing to get the words from his mind, and his heart, onto paper before they left him, before he wouldn’t be able to recall them and speak them again.

You and I don't always fly.  
Let me go I want to fall,  
Deep into the dark.  
But I'll get back to you.  
_And I'll always know how to find you,  
_ `Cause you shine like the midnight sun …

.     .     .

 **1997  
** _Santa Monica_

His legs were shaking as he left the stage, body relying solely on muscle memory. _Put one foot in front of the other until you reach your desired destination_. Even still, he felt as if he might fall over, or be ill, his heart in his throat and his spine tingling. It had been a long time coming, and yet standing in front of a crowd, saying the words gave it a certain air of finality, there was no going back now, not that he had wanted to. He’d made up his mind years ago, though success had stopped him from following through. But with the direction that the band, and his own life, had been headed in, made the decision that much easier to make, to live with.

Though, now that he had said the words, he was wondering if he truly could.

John had just stood in front of a crowd at a convention, playing a solo acoustic set. He’d been doing a lot of solo work in the past year, and with the Neurotic Outsiders as well, so the fans hadn’t seemed too shocked at his presence, nor at the fact that he was alone. It wasn’t until just before the last song, _Lonely in Your Nightmare_ , that he dropped the bombshell on his unsuspecting fans.

He was leaving Duran Duran.

John never made it back to the studio in London two years previous, never really gave any indication that he was even considering it as an option. He was, and he had, got caught up in trying to carve a path for himself that didn’t include two of his closest friends and all that they had done together. It felt good to be alone, to embrace a sort of solitude that he’d always struggled with. He’d never liked being alone, and now he felt as if he couldn’t get enough of it.

Worse though, he hadn’t really talked to Simon, Nick, or Warren in a year and a half. There were fleeting and missed phone calls, but John’s anxiety always had him ending them before anyone could delve too deeply into what was going on, before he could offer it and before anyone could ask. Warren never called him much anyway, so when he stopped John took little notice. Eventually, Nick stopped calling to fill him in on what was going on, on how Simon was struggling creatively, stopped calling to berate him about how he was abandoning them and to just let them know what was on his mind. Simon called only a handful of times, not wanting to press John more than Nick was, but also wanting answers to questions that had remained unanswered. When he stopped calling, John’s heart sank, even though he knew that it wasn’t fair to have baited his friend with what had felt like a false hope for so long. It hadn’t been false, John just needed more time. But he had taken too much time, and he knew that. The last time he and Simon talked, he could hear the mourning in Simon’s voice - a mourning for what they could’ve had once more. John didn’t deserve Simon, who was so kind and wore his heart openly on his sleeve. Simon, who would’ve waited forever for him. John didn’t want him to, didn’t want to bring any more doubt or pain into the other man’s life.

Operating on autopilot meant that when John finally ended up in his hotel room, he had no recollection of how he’d gotten there. He knew that there was a car, that someone else had thankfully driven, but beyond that he seemed to be in a fog. The fact that he couldn’t immediately recall the details of his afternoon frightened him at first, but then he remembered it had nothing to do with drugs or alcohol - it was simply a result of the stress and anxiety of what he had just done.

As John sunk to the floor, neglecting the chair immediately beside him, a choked sob heaved its way from his chest. He didn’t know if he was crying from relief, anguish, happiness, or devastation. Perhaps it was all of the above. Perhaps it was something else entirely. Whatever it was, John hadn’t prepared for it, hadn’t prepared for acknowledging the fact that a new chapter of his life was beginning, one in which he would be alone, one in which where bonds that he had made twenty ago would undoubtedly be broken.

It was over.

.     .     .

There was a loud and persistent ringing far off in the distance, coaxing John’s eyes open. It took him a few moments to realize that he had even been asleep, having eventually dragged himself from the floor and onto his rented bed, his body giving into the exhaustion. He had no idea how long he’d been out for, nor how long the phone had been ringing since he had registered that it had been what was making the noise and picked it up.

“Hello,” he murmured, getting comfortable on top of the bed sheets.

“I don’t even get to hear it from you, I get to hear from our manager.”

John closed his eyes and sighed, having expected the phone call from Simon sooner or later, though he had wished that it wouldn’t have happened, that Simon would just forget, that he could go on existing without knowing how terribly he’d let his friend down. He wished for it, however unlikely that it was.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered, feeling terrible. “But … I just couldn’t anymore.”

“All you needed to do was tell us. Tell _me_. We all would’ve understood. You’ve been falling away from us for a long time now. We’d sort of … expected it to happen eventually. But like this, mate? C’mon.”

John wasn’t certain what was worse - the fact that Simon didn’t sound as brokenhearted about it as he thought that he might, or that he sounded so clearly disappointed in him. He didn’t have the insight into Simon’s mind and heart as he once had, and it was all of his own doing. He’d drifted away again, fearful of getting hurt. Things not having worked out with Amanda, even though he tried, made him wary of matters of the heart. Even when it came to Simon, who he knew without a doubt would love him always. But that didn’t stop him from acting foolish. Instead of retreating into drugs and booze this time, he simply retreated into himself.

“I couldn’t find the words,” John answered lamely, knowing that it wasn’t a good enough excuse. “How do you basically break up with two of your best friends? How do you leave something that’s been everything you’ve ever wanted since you were a kid? Everything you’ve known for almost twenty years?”

“I dunno, Johnny. How do you?” Simon asked, an edge of sarcasm in his voice. “It seems like it was easy for you to do, just not easy for you to say to us. Fuck, mate. You told _fans_ before you told _us_. It feels like you just ran away. It’s rubbish, really.”

John didn’t want to fight, but he wasn’t about to try and smooth over Simon’s feelings. He knew he’d fucked up by essentially going incommunicado for a year and a half, and that he’d fucked up even further by announcing it to a bunch of fans before he told any of his friends. There was no way to change what had happened, it was done.

“What do you want me to say, Simon?” John asked, looking up at the ceiling of his hotel room. “It’s done. I’m leaving.”

“There. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

“Hardest thing I’ve done in my entire bloody life,” John replied, taking a deep breath. “Please tell me that we’re all still friends.”

“I can’t speak for anyone else,” Simon began, “you know how long Nick holds grudges. You’ll have to talk to him, if he’ll let you. I’d have you back tomorrow.”

“You’re far too understanding. You always have been. Fuck, Charlie. You all should’ve kicked me out a long time ago.”

“Now why would we do that?” Simon asked. “We all had our problems, our fuck ups, you’re no different, Johnny.”

“Just seems like I was responsible for a lot of them,” John lamented. Simon said nothing, merely hummed, and John couldn’t tell if he was agreeing or just didn’t want to say anything. “I should let you go. I -”

“Don’t be a stranger. Okay?” Simon interrupted, evidently sensing in John’s tone that he didn’t truly have anywhere to be, he just didn’t want to have this conversation anymore.

“Yeah. No, of course. I’ll call you,” John replied, sitting up slightly.

“Take care of yourself, Johnny.”

“You too, Charlie.”

Biting his lip, John waited for Simon to say something else, anything else, hoping that he would tell him that he loved him, as he had on every phone call they’d had over the past decade. He was met with silence, and couldn’t yet tell if Simon had already hung up, or was waiting to hear the same.

John set the headset of the phone back down onto its cradle.

It was over.

.     .     .

 **1999  
** _New York_

In his home in London, he turned the message scrawled in Yasmin’s flowing cursive on a piece of a scrap paper over in his hand, biting at the inside of his cheek and attempting to quell the feelings of eager anticipation and nausea-inducing dread. The message was brief, and gave no details other than “Call Gerry” followed by a California based phone number. There was a question mark at the bottom, indicating that Yasmin had no idea who Gerry was, but she’d given up on trying to keep track of all the people passing through Simon’s life a long time ago.

Simon, of course, knew who Gerry was. Gerry Laffy, who was playing guitar for John’s new touring band, John Taylor Terroristen. Despite having never spoken, Gerry had somehow acquired his home number. Simon suspected he had gone through John’s mobile and found the number, which made Simon’s heart sink, hoping that John was okay, and that nothing was the matter.

“You’ll never find out what it’s about if you don’t call him back,” Yasmin said, seemingly reading Simon’s thoughts as she walked past him, kissing him on the cheek. “Do you know a Gerry?”

“Vaguely,” Simon replied, turning to look at his wife. “He plays guitar in John’s band.”

“Oh,” Yasmin said, the ever-present smile on her face fading slightly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I don’t expect you to, love,” Simon said, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close to return the favour of a peck on the cheek. “Don’t apologize. I just have no idea why he might have called. We’ve never met.”

“Is everything okay with John?” Yasmin asked, eyebrow arching.

“Not a clue,” Simon replied, with a sad shake of his head. He and John hadn’t spoken since the day that Simon had discovered that John was leaving the band. Yasmin kept telling him that he should, but he never did, always frightened to pick up the phone given how he’d left things that day. “Last I spoke to him was the day he left.”

“Oh, Simon,” Yasmin murmured sadly, pursing her lips together. “Call him.”

“John or Gerry?”

“Both.”

Simon did eventually pick up the phone, but instead of his fingers dialing a long distance number that he’d committed to memory some years ago, he dialed the one jotted onto a piece of scrap paper. As the phone rang, Simon cursed himself and tried to do the mental math to figure out what hour of the day it was on the west coast of the United States, having forgotten that was a thing that he needed to take into consideration.

Gerry eventually picked up, just as Simon had figured out that it wasn’t some ungodly hour there, breathing a sigh of relief. After exchanging introductions and pleasantries, Gerry got right to the point.

“So, the band is doing a show in New York next month, and the boys and I were wondering if maybe you’d like to come? Sing a couple of songs with us,” he asked.

“The Terroristen?” Simon asked, as he paced the living room, looking at Yasmin out of the corner of his eye, who was trying to pretend as if she wasn’t listening to his side of the conversation. “Um, don’t get me wrong, mate. I’d love to, but what’s the catch?”

“Well -”

“John’s not in on this, is he,” Simon said suddenly, answering the question for himself.

“Not especially,” Gerry replied. “He alluded to wishing you could come out and do a show with us some night, but the conversation basically stopped there. The show’s for the launch of Gela’s clothing line. It’ll be a festive atmosphere. Not really a concert. A bit more lowkey.”

“Hmm,” Simon muttered. “But John doesn’t know.”

“Right. Shit. I know, it might not exactly be kosher. He told us when he left you guys that it was all amicable. But … I know that you two haven’t exactly been talking all that often since. He sure does miss you, though. I know that much.”

“I’ll think about it,” Simon replied. “Gotta check what we’re doing over on this side of the pond. Is this the best number to reach you at?”

“Yeah, man.”

“I’ll be in touch then. Cheers.”

Hanging up the phone, Simon turned to look at Yasmin, who quickly bent her head to look down at her magazine. “Cheeky,” Simon said, smiling at her. “Don’t even pretend like you weren’t listening.”

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” she said, thumbing through the magazine that she clearly wasn’t reading. “So, what’s this about you going to America?”

“I don’t know if I’m going to,” Simon replied, sitting down on the couch next to her. “We haven’t talked once in over a year. There’s no bad blood, but it’s odd that we haven’t spoken. It would feel … strange.”

“Oh, bollocks,” Yasmin said, looking at Simon. “You and I both know that you and John could go years without talking and pick up right where you left off.” She had the decency to allow her husband to look shocked for a moment. “Besides, seeing him again may help you from being so bloody mopey.”

“I am not mopey!” Simon said, sounding quite offended.

“Not all of the time and certainly not obviously,” Yasmin said. “But enough that I can tell, and don’t think that I don’t know why.” She looked at Simon pointedly. “You can write all the _Who Do You Think You Are_ type songs that you want, and you won’t fool me, Si. You love that man, and you’re going to be miserable until he’s back in your life in whatever capacity you both choose. Which doesn’t bode well for me, because I need you in mine too.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m miserable,” Simon said, rolling his eyes a little. “That’s a touch dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Fine. Maybe not miserable, but you’re happier when he’s your world one way or another,” Yasmin corrected. “The point is, he has a piece of your heart. And I stand by what I said years ago - I’m okay with that. The amount of shit you two have been through is madness. But you need him and he needs you. Stop fooling yourselves. Now, pick up that phone, call Gerry back, and tell him that you’ll be there.”

“Oh my god, woman,” Simon laughed. “I don’t even know if the boys and -”

“You’re not. Your schedule’s all freed up,” Yasmin said, smirking.

“So cheeky,” Simon chuckled, shaking his head a little. “You sure you’re not in on this?”

“Not at all,” Yasmin replied honestly, though her smile may have betrayed her if Simon hadn’t known any better. “But I’ll be damned if you’re not going to that show and seeing John.”

“What if he doesn’t want me there?” Simon asked, fidgeting with his hands a little. “I was a right shit to him that day on the phone.”

“He’s likely forgotten all about it,” Yasmin replied. “I don’t know him as well as you, but I know him well enough to know that he’s as stupid about you as you are about him.”

.     .     .

The instructions that Gerry and the rest of the members of John’s band had provided him with were simple - stay out of sight until the show began, and even then, keep a low profile. Simon felt less like a guest and more like an informant or a spy being guarded by secret service agents. He’d gotten used to attempting to keep a low profile in his younger days, when he and the rest of the band couldn’t go anywhere, lest they be seen by adoring fans. But essentially staying in hiding to surprise a friend was something new entirely, especially considering said friend may not have even wanted to see him.

John’s band, and Yasmin, were all confident that even though not two words of this surprise had been spoken to John that he would love it. And while Simon believed it as well, there was still a nagging feeling that maybe the reason that he and John hadn’t spoken in over a year was that John didn’t _want_ to speak with him. He’d mentioned before boarding a flight to the states to Nick and Warren that he was going, for what reason he wasn’t sure. They’d all been doing their best to not keep any secrets from one another, lest the band began fraying even more. Warren seemed apathetic, and Nick was pleased even if he tried to look cross. Simon had suggested that they join him, but Nick had told him to not be foolish and to go extend the olive branch by himself, that they would catch up with John at a later date.

Simon waited in the wings, in darkness, as John and his band performed on stage, to a crowd that was eating it up. The concert had been by invite-only, so it wasn’t the usual fanfare that Simon was acquainted with. Less fans, more friends and industry types. All the same, there was dancing and screaming as the Terroristen played their songs, and dabbled in covers of Duran Duran songs. It had been customary during John’s shows to end with some songs from his former band, the majority of his audiences naturally having been fans of him when he’d played with Duran Duran. According to Gerry, he and the rest of the the band had convinced John not deviate from that setlist, so that Simon could join him on stage for the last few songs.

Watching John as he performed, Simon couldn’t help but smile brightly. He hadn’t seen John look so happy on stage in years. When he tried to recall when precisely the last time may have been, it pained him when the realization dawned that it may have been in the early eighties, when Duran Duran were chasing dreams of stardom, still playing house shows at the Rum Runner. John was at home on stage, but the whirlwind that had been their lives for so long, that John had been swept up in, made it all a little less enjoyable.

But now, John shone the brightest under the stage lights, completely in his element, in a peaceful reverence that Simon thought he might pay in blood to see again and again.

This was the John that he had fallen head over heels for all those years ago. This was the John that the dull ache in his heart permeated all through his body for.

“Thank you!” John said to the crowd, as they applauded the end of one of the Terroristen’s songs. Simon, who hadn’t been paying close enough attention, caught up in his thoughts, was handed a microphone by a nearby tech, and rubbed his sweaty palm onto his trousers. Show time. “We’ve been playing a lot of newer stuff tonight,” John continued, as he swapped instruments, slinging the bass over his shoulder and approaching the microphone again. “You might know this next one,” he said, idly plucking the strings on his bass, preparing himself to launch into Planet Earth. “If it’s all right with you, I thought we might play something a little older.”

“Not if you’re going to butcher it,” Simon said into his microphone, as he wandered onto the stage.

It took a second for the crowd to react, and when they did it was near pandemonium. John whirled around quickly, and for a moment Simon couldn’t read his face due to the stage lights behind him, and feared that John’s mates and Yasmin had been wrong. But shock gave way to almost instantaneous joy, and wandering over to him to close the space between them, John threw his arms around Simon, hugging him tightly.

“Simon,” John whispered, the happiness in his voice so palpable that Simon didn’t need to see his face to know that he was beaming.

“Hey, Johnny,” Simon said softly, so only his friend could hear.

Not wanting to linger, John pulled away and grabbed his microphone, gesturing an arm toward Simon. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you my dear friend - Simon Le Bon!”

The crowd cheered, and Simon waved, before looking over at Johnny and smiling. “Do I count them down, or do you?” he asked. “This is _your_ band after all, mate.”

“Guest’s honour,” John replied with a grin, and looking over at Gerry.

Simon couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up as he turned toward the band and counted them down to the beginning chords and beats of _Planet Earth_. He hadn’t been on stage with John in years, and though the rest of the pieces of the band were different, they were all wonderful in their own right. Not Duran Duran, but just as good in their own way. Nothing, however, compared to having John next to him, plucking and slapping at the strings on his bass in earnest. Nothing had ever felt as good and right as having John on stage beside him.

Only came outside to watch the nightfall with the rain.  
I heard you making patterns rhyme,  
_Like some new romantic looking for the TV sound.  
_ You'll see I'm right some other time …

.     .     .

Despite the shindig having been for the launch of the Juicy clothing line, Mrs. Nash-Taylor was not present that evening, and Simon lamented that he did not get to meet John’s new wife. John assured him some other time, maybe the next time Simon found himself in California, and Simon had smiled at the prospect. Gela was clearly good for John - there was a renewed vigor in him that Simon hadn’t seen since their early days, and he looked forward to meeting the woman that helped John become the man he had seemingly always wanted to be.

Simon didn’t see much of John that evening, his time spent hobnobbing with industry types and mingling with people he’d only just met. The atmosphere was festive and happy, and any apprehensions that Simon may have had before arriving had been quashed early in the night. He was glad that he had come.

As the numbers in the crowd began to dwindle, and Simon began looking at his watch and planning his escape, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned around to find John beaming at him, a glass of water in his hand.

“I’m really glad you came,” he said, fingers digging in Simon’s shoulder slightly.

“Thank Gerry and the rest of your band,” Simon said, pointing in Tito’s general direction and looping an arm around John’s waist. “It was their doing.”

“I already have,” John replied, “countless times.”

A comfortable silence hung between them, and Simon kicked himself for having not reached out to John sooner. How could he have been so foolish? He told himself that he wanted to give John the space that he needed, but he would be amiss not to admit that he’d missed him like mad in the year and change that they hadn’t spoken.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” John asked, hooking a thumb and gesturing behind him. “I think I’ve fulfilled my commitment here. Gela won’t mind if it makes it back to her that I didn’t see the end of the evening through.”

“Yeah, sure,” Simon replied, polishing off what remained of his drink and setting the empty glass on a nearby table.

They bid their goodbyes to anyone they passed in the crowd, and Simon waited outside in the damp of the New York evening while John conferred with his wife’s business partner to ensure that she would be okay the remainder of the evening. After a few moments, John joined Simon outside the venue, and smiled at him as he walked to the edge of the sidewalk to hail a cab. They clamoured into the backseat of one that pulled up shortly after John had hailed it, and John gave the driver the address of where he was staying.

“How long has it been?” John asked, turning to Simon after a moment’s silence.

“The day you left,” Simon responded, furrowing his brow as he was concentrating. “So, a little over a year and a half? Almost two years.”

“Geez.”

Simon watched as John glanced out the window, the passing streetlights and neon signs of pubs and stores illuminating his face, casting odd shadows in their wake. There were a few more wrinkles on John’s face than the last time Simon had seen him, though the same was true of him as well. He’d turned forty the year before, and John was nearing that milestone birthday himself. The years seemed to have flown by since their first meeting twenty years previous at the Rum Runner in Birmingham. It felt like it had been yesterday, it felt like it had been an eternity.

“I wanted to call,” Simon said as John turned to look at him. “Every day, I wanted to call you. But I couldn’t find the words.”

“Simon Le Bon at a loss for words? Well, I never,” John teased, playfully smacking him on the arm.

“I thought that you wanted space. I wanted to give it to you. I didn’t want to make you feel more poorly than I already knew that you did,” Simon added, watching as the smile on John’s face faded slowly.

“I know, Charlie,” John said, turning to look toward the front of the cab. “I could’ve called too. I figured that you didn’t want to hear from me. Who wants to hear from the person who initiated the break-up?”

Simon knew what John meant, but the words were applicable in more than one way, and John realized this too, as he offered Simon a small, sad smile in return. “I’m here now,” Simon said, reaching out, his fingers brushing along the back of John’s hand. “And so are you.”

“Yeah,” John exhaled, his smile turning brighter. “So am I.”

.     .     .

It felt as if no time had passed between them at all as they sat on the couch in John’s suite, reminiscing about old times and trading stories that had happened in each other’s absence. The game of backgammon on the table in front of them had all been but forgotten as John fell back against the couch, practically cackling as Simon animatedly told a story about Nick and a mishap on their last tour. Once John had calmed a little, and wiped the tears from his eyes, he sat upright once more, breathing heavily and reaching for his glass of water.

“How is Nick, anyway?” he asked.

Simon paused in drinking the cocktail that John had made for him (“Just because I’m sober doesn’t mean that I can’t mix you a drink, don’t be so daft.”), and furrowed his brow. “You two haven’t spoken?” Simon knew that they hadn’t, Nick had told him as much. But it still shocked him to know that John and Nick, who had started Duran Duran together when they’d both been teenagers, had been best friends, had gone almost two years without speaking to one another.

John shook his head, shrugged a little. “No. Haven’t spoken to you, Nick, or Warren since I left.”

“Nick is good,” Simon replied, setting his drink down on the table. “He misses you.”

“Did he say that?”

“He doesn’t need to.”

John hunched slightly, and looked at his hands, calloused from years of plucking at instruments, and Simon wondered what he might be thinking. There had been a time when he hadn’t needed to wonder, and he would’ve given anything for that again. He turned slightly on the couch so that he was facing John, throwing his arm over the back of the couch and John’s back, scooting a little closer to him.

“Would you ever consider coming back?” Simon asked.

“Maybe. I don’t know,” John replied. “I wasn’t enjoying it anymore, Charlie. It wasn’t the same. I don’t know what could be done to make it feel right again.”

“Just because it’s not as it was before doesn’t mean that it can’t be great,” Simon said. “You, me, Nick, and Warren made great music together. I’m not going to pressure you, I want you to do what it is that makes you happy. But if you wanted to come back, you could. No questions asked.”

John chuckled ruefully. “Have you discussed this with Nick or Warren?”

“No,” Simon answered. “I don’t have to. We’re all on the same page when it comes to you.” Simon watched as the wheels turned in John’s head. He wouldn’t ask him if he wanted to come back, he wouldn’t make this evening all about that. There was no way that he couldn’t mention it at least once, but getting John back wasn’t what the night was about. He was just happy to see his friend again. “Hey. C’mon. That’s not why I came here tonight. I came here because I missed you and wanted to see you again. Not to try and railroad you back into the band. All I need to know is if you’re happy.”

Offering Simon a genuine smile, John nodded his head slightly. “I am,” he replied. “Happier than I’ve been in years. Feels like everything's coming together.”

“That’s all I need then,” Simon said, reaching out and running a hand through John’s hair, an instinct that seemed like a relic that he’d failed to curtail. John leaned into the touch, and Simon’s breathing hitched. That’s not what why he had come either, and he didn’t want to go down that path again if it only lead to heartbreak, as it inevitably seemed to for them. “I didn’t come here for that either,” Simon whispered, his hand curled at the base of John’s skull, fingers idly smoothing down strands of his hair.

“I know,” John said, closing his eyes for a moment. “But I’m not going to pretend that I don’t like it.”

Simon smiled, and leaned in to press a kiss to John’s forehead. “We know how this ends, Johnny,” he murmured.

John hummed, learning into Simon’s body, draping his arms over Simon’s shoulders. “I know,” he said once more. “It’s not a road I want to go down again either. We’re far too old for that kind of angst now.”

“Speak for yourself,” Simon chided, recalling a time years ago when John had said something similar to him. John laughed, and Simon lifted his hand to brush his fingers along John’s cheek. “All I’ve ever wanted for you is happiness, John. And past experience leads me to believe that you wouldn’t have it with me. Not for a lack of trying, it just doesn’t seem to be the way things are meant to be. We’re forever mucking it up.”

“Things have changed,” John added. “For the better. I think if we wanted it, we could have it, but I’m not willing to risk the future.”

Simon would have been wounded by that, if he hadn’t also agreed. If there was any chance that the band might have of John coming back, it was best not to fall into the patterns that they had a habit of falling into for nearly fifteen years. The years and experience had taught them perhaps it was best that they be friends, and nothing more. Simon was okay with that, really and truly for once, and he hoped that John was too.

The only indication that John may not have been on the same page was the fact that he closed the space between them, lips tentatively brushing against Simon’s. The kiss was quick, yet unrestrained, and Simon found his lips responding in kind. When John pulled back, he was smiling, and Simon couldn’t help the grin spreading across his own face.

“I asked you once before,” John began, “if you and the band would wait for me. I don’t know what I’ll want tomorrow, next month, next year, but I have to know - did you mean it?”

“Every word,” Simon replied. “I’d have you back tomorrow.”

Simon was uncertain how he had meant for that particular reply to be interpreted. He concluded that any way would be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sure that it goes without saying, but history has been altered slightly in some places in the name of fiction.


	3. 2000s

**2000  
** _Los Angeles_

 _It’s sure to me, love’s not that easy._  
_God knows I wanted you._  
_‘Til the end,_  
_Just good friends …_

John paced the living room of his home, wringing his hands and reminding himself that it wasn’t really _that_ big of a deal. It was just one of his best friends, his ex-lover, coming by after having not seen him in almost a year. Not since he’d surprised John in New York, not since they’d sat on a couch in John’s hotel room, reminiscing over days gone by, not willing to risk what the future might hold.

Certainly nothing to get one’s self all worked up over.

It had been earlier in the day when John had seen Simon, while he and Gela had been enjoying a day out. John had spotted Simon across the shop floor at Barney’s, equal parts happy to see him and feeling somewhat apprehensive. Having convinced himself that he was being foolish, he’d walked over to him, dragging Gela in tow, who had never met Simon before, which they had both agreed was criminal.

“Johnny!” Simon had said excitedly, wrapping his arms around John in a bear hug and picking him up off the floor as soon as he’d seen John.

“Good to see you too, Charlie,” John had chuckled after Simon had finally let his feet touch the floor again. “I don’t believe you two have met yet,” John began looking over at his wife. “Simon, this is Gela.”

“The infamous Simon Le Bon,” Gela said, batting Simon’s outstretched hand away and giving him a hug instead.

“Infamous?” Simon had repeated, looking over at John. “I’m not going to deny the truth, but I hope you only told her stories of the good debauchery.”

“Only the best,” John replied, smiling as Gela withdrew from Simon’s embrace and kissed him on the cheek. “What are you doing in LA?”

“The fellas and I are playing some shows at the House of Blues in West Hollywood,” Simon replied, idly scratching at his chin. “A few shows actually. You two should come see one. I’ll put you on the guest list. Just let me know which night works best for you.”

“We’d love to!” Gela said before John could even open his mouth to respond.

Simon looked to John for his input, but he merely smiled and nodded. “We _would_ love to.”

And he had meant it. Aside from seeing Simon again, it would be nice to see Nick and Warren, provided Nick would actually speak to him. On top of that, he’d shut out Duran Duran since he had left, making a point of not really listening to any of the material that they had put out, not reading any reviews, and going so far as to change the station if one of their songs  - old or new - came on the radio. As liberating being free of the band felt, it still hurt on more occasions than not.

“You should come over for dinner tonight,” Gela said, reaching for John’s hand and lacing their fingers together. “It’s criminal that you haven’t been over to the house before. Bring Nick and Warren too.”

John wanted to gently remind his wife that the band had a show that evening, and would probably be unable to make it to dinner. He also wasn’t entirely sure if his first interaction with Nick in almost five years should involve any food, lest he wear it.

“How about just me tonight, Taylors,” Simon suggested, and John was never more thankful that Simon had always been able to have a good read on him, even after so much time apart. “But perhaps the three of us could come over some other time this week and catch up?”

They’d agreed on an early dinner since Simon’s presence was required elsewhere, and though John was normally quite helpful in the kitchen he’d decided on forgoing to help chopping vegetables and having some manner of existential crisis in the living room instead. Gela, having sensed her husband’s fussing from a few rooms over, stood in the entryway of the living room, wiping her hands off on a dish towel.

“Should I have not invited him over?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow at John.

“No. No, of course you should have. I’m glad that you did,” John replied, pulling his hands through his hair. “Seeing him just kind of rattles me. In a good way. When you’re not exposed to Simon Le Bon on a frequent enough basis, he can sometimes be a bit much.”

As if on cue, there was a gentle rapping at the door, and Gela smiled at John before returning back to the kitchen. “That must be him,” she said in a sing-song voice, leaving John to tend to answering the door.

John couldn’t place why he was so nervous, it wasn’t as if there was any bad blood between him and Simon, nor had they left things awkwardly the last time that they had seen one another. The last time they had seen (or spoken to) one another had been the evening in New York, when Simon had surprised John on stage for the Juicy launch. That night had descended into something John hadn’t exactly expected, but had treasured all the same, just as he did all of the times that they had shared together. They hadn’t been foolish, and had instead simply crawled into John’s bed together, sleeping curled against one another. It was reminiscent of their earlier days in the band, just starting out, sometimes needing to share beds out of necessity, with not enough money to spring for the luxury of five beds. It had been a perfect way to end the evening.

And in the morning, Simon had left, bound for London, leaving John alone in a hotel room that was far too big for just one person.

John became so busy with recording solo material, dabbling with the occasional acting gig, and touring that finding time to pick up the phone and call Simon always seemed to be slipping away from him. A terrible excuse, he knew, but he’d gotten quite good at just avoiding things that made him uncomfortable. He’d had a lot of experience in the past. Seeing Simon in the shop earlier that day had ignited a resurgence of feelings that John had done his best to forget about since they saw one another last in New York. The love that he felt was far from unrequited, but having decided once and for all that there existed no future in which they would be lovers again meant that they would need to find alternate ways to express that love. They’d been friends long before they’d ever fallen into bed together, surely it wouldn’t be so difficult to recapture that.

Managing to quell his nerves at the prospect of having that conversation with Simon, John answered the door to find a beaming Simon on the other side.

“Was starting to think that you weren’t planning on letting me in,” he said, wrapping his arms around John once more. “It’s good to see you, Johnny.”

“Good to see you too,” John said, truly meaning it, regardless of how nervous he felt.

“You really didn’t have to do an early bird special on my account,” Simon said, as John ushered him inside.

“Nonsense. We wanted to have you over for dinner, and if you insist on making noise with that band of yours this evening then an early dinner it is,” John declared, closing the door behind them as Simon chuckled. Even after five years away, it still felt strange to refer to Duran Duran as something that was no longer his own. He’d started it with Nick, by all rights he should’ve still been there. Apparently, it hadn’t meant to end that way.  “C’mon. I’ll show you around.”

.     .     .

After the plates from dinner had been cleared, tea made by John, and Gela in stitches from the stories that Simon regaled them with, mostly about John when they’d been younger and up to no good, she remarked about giving the boys some time to catch up, and made herself scarce. John cocked his head toward the back door leading to the patio and pool, and lead Simon outside, the sun beginning to hang a little lower in the sky in impending twilight. John figured that Simon was meant to be leaving soon, and though he didn’t want to hold him up, he also felt reluctant and the prospect of letting him leave. Which was foolish, as John was sure he’d see him in a few days. Though John was loathe to admit it, a part of him had been starved for Simon’s presence in his life.

Simon kicked off his shoes and sat at the edge of the pool, dipping his feet into the cool water, kicking them idly. John followed suit, rolling up his pant legs slightly and sitting next to Simon. After a moment, Simon leaned against him, and sighed contentedly.

“I’m really glad that I ran into you today, Johnny,” he said, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply.

“Me too,” John countered, wrapping an arm around Simon, hauling him just a little closer. The two sat in silence for a few moments, enjoying the closeness of one another, it having been far too long since they had any manner of time together like this. Simon kicked his feet beneath the water, eventually twining his right leg with John’s left. John smiled, reaching over and grasping at Simon’s hand, which he had been resting on his leg. Turning it over, John traced idle patterns over the lines in Simon’s palm, until Simon closed his fingers over John’s hand, eventually lacing their fingers together.

“I miss you like mad,” Simon said softly, his eyes focused on their joined hands. John inhaled sharply, about to remind Simon that it clearly wasn’t meant to be, but Simon continued on. “Nick does too. I know he does, even if he won’t admit to it. You really hurt him when you left, probably more than you hurt me. He won’t say anything about it, but I know he wanted to help you. But you never gave us the chance. He’s not so much cross with you, as he is with the fact that you were slipping away for so long and there was nothing that he could do to help.”

“I’d already made up my mind,” John said, relieved that the conversation hadn’t turned into the direction that he was anticipating that it would. He needed to remind himself that Simon had moved on from what they’d had romantically. John had too, he just sometimes had difficulty admitting it. “There was nothing that anyone could have said to make me stay. Not then, anyway,” he finished, looking down into the pool.

“Does that mean that if I asked you now, that you might think about it?” Simon asked, and John couldn’t help but smile.

“I’m saying … I _might_ think about it,” John replied, looking from the pool to up at Simon. “Permitted that offer of letting me come back still stands.”

“Always.”

.     .     .

Having just gotten off the phone with Roger, John set the headset back down in the cradle of the telephone and let out the breath that he hadn’t realized that he had been holding. Trying to keep some air of mystery about what had been spoken between the two of them, he turned to face Simon and Nick, who were seated on the couch on the other side of the room, looking at John expectantly.

After their conversation at the pool the prior evening, Simon had said that if it was okay with John that he’d bring Nick by the following day. John felt a little apprehensive, but ultimately had been agreeable to the suggestion, not wanting it to seem like he was avoiding Nick, even if at that point he had been just a little bit. John had been more nervous about seeing and speaking to Nick for the first time in almost five years than he had about seeing or speaking to Simon.

When they had arrived at John’s home, after greetings had been exchanged, Nick simply grabbed John by the arm and turned him so that they were facing one another, and asked, “Do they not have phones here in America?” The wheels in John’s head worked hard at forming a reply, until Nick had smiled at him, and pulled him into a hug. “You’re a bloody stupid man, you know that?”

“I’ve been informed of the fact many times, yes. By you, if I recall.”

The afternoon had been spent catching up, mainly Nick and John, neither wanting to admit that Simon had done a commendable job of keeping them in the loop of what was going on in the other’s life. When the topic of the band inevitably came up, John furrowed his brow at Nick’s questioning of whether or not he would want to come back.

“I do,” John replied, fidgeting with the empty glass on the table in front of him. “Sort of. I think. I’m not sure.”

“Oh, for -”

“No, hear me out,” John said, interrupting Nick. “I’m happy with what I’ve done for myself since I’ve left the band. It was fun, and I think I proved to myself that I was capable of doing it, but I miss what being in a band is like. What being with _you_ blokes is like. But I have … conditions.”

“So long as they’re not outrageous, they’re probably something that we can work on,” Simon said, looking over at Nick for confirmation, who was already nodding.

“Andy and Roger have to come back too.”

John had given it a lot of thought, and the fact was that when he’d left the band when he did, it all changed so much that there wasn’t as much enjoyment in it for him anymore. If he was going to come back, he wanted Andy and Roger to be there. He wanted it to be a proper reunion. There had been various conversations with the other Taylors regarding coming back over the past fifteen years. They never pressed the matter too much with Andy, but he seemed like he would be interested in trying it out again. And though Roger had all but retired from public life in the eighties, he’d recently been making a comeback to it with his own efforts, though certainly not as in the limelight as Duran Duran. Though, who was to say that they had said they would actually be interested in doing it? Perhaps it was just their own version of agreeing to get together for coffee with an old friend - knowing that it would never happen, lying through their teeth in order to get the conversation to shift to a different direction.

“Call them,” Simon had said, surprising both John and Nick. “Let’s get them both on the phone right now, see if they’re actually interested in it. We can go from there.”

John hadn’t expected such an instantaneous agreement to his suggestion, and would have been thrown off by it if he hadn’t also assumed that Nick and Simon had spent a lot of time imagining this scenario. He didn’t doubt that the two of them wanted the “fab five” together again.

Sitting in John’s personal office, Simon had leaned forward after his phone call with Roger, eager to hear the results of the conversation that had transpired. Nick attempted to look calm and cool, but John could see that the anticipation was killing him. He’d spoken to Andy a few moments before, and Andy agreed that he would come back, which meant that they would need to figure out a way to incorporate two guitar players into the act, Simon and Nick not wanting to get rid of Warren, who had been with the band much longer than Andy had at that point, and who fit into the group nicely.

“Well,” Simon began, looking at John. “What did Rog say?”

John considered leaving Simon and Nick hanging for a moment longer, but couldn’t bring himself to drag out the torture any longer than necessary. There was no way that he could keep the joy that he felt a secret a moment longer. “Roger said he’s in,” John replied, and couldn’t keep from smiling as Simon let out a whoop of joy, and Nick grinned like a cat who had eaten a canary.

.     .     .

 **2003  
** _Tokyo_

It had been a few years since Simon had last been to Tokyo, and the last time that he was there everything had been different. He and Nick knew that it would be their last show with Warren, who would be joining Missing Persons during their reunion, and ultimately leaving Duran Duran. They’d played a smaller venue, the sort that they had gotten used to playing in recent years, the band certainly not at the forefront of the music scene as they once had been.

He and Nick also knew then that the next time that they returned to Japan, if everything went as they hoped that it would, that they would be doing so with some old friends.

There had certainly been some doubts, whether or not the band could be as viable as they once had been. They didn't doubt it for a moment, but much of the higher echelon of the industry seemed to. Did people even want a reunion of Duran Duran, or had they stopped caring years ago? The fans had spoken by way of snatching up tickets to their first shows together again in Japan in minutes. Clearly, they were meant to stick around.

.     .     .

Simon, John, Nick, Roger, and Andy had played a few shows together in Japan already to immense fanfare. It was as if nothing had changed, the band falling into the same ease with one another that they’d had together more than fifteen years previous, before everything had gone pear shaped. In preparation for their first shows together, they had rehearsed in secret and with vigor before announcing the reunion. In rehearsals it felt as if no time had passed, and that translated into their live performances as well.

On stage, Simon found that he had a boundless energy that he felt he had been lacking for years.  Not that he had ever been the type to not put on a show for the crowd, but he had found himself not as energetic as he once was, and he refused to chalk it up to age. He wasn’t going to deny that he was excited to have the band back together again. He’d missed playing alongside Andy and Roger, who had given the band something in those early days that never could have been replaced, no matter how hard they tried to fill their shoes.

And he certainly wouldn’t deny how good it felt to have John next to him once more.

In New York, Simon had gotten a taste of it, a taste of the past, when he’d surprised John on stage when he’d been doing a show with his own band, the two of them playing some fan favourites. But nothing compared to performing with him like this. Together again in almost every sense that they had been, that they could be.

Simon pushed the thoughts of what they had once been far from his mind.

.     .     .

Sitting at the hotel bar, Simon alternated between talking with the bartender and scribbling away on a cocktail napkin, his drink barely touched. It was late enough that few other patrons lingered, and those that did were stifling yawns and eyeing the exit. Faint contemporary music played over to speakers, though Simon was doing his best to block it out and concentrate on the tune that had implanted itself in his brain.

“Never could just turn your brain off, could you?” came a voice from beside him.

Simon craned his neck slightly just as Roger took the seat next to him, ordering a whiskey from the bartender and then turning to look at his friend.

“It would be silly to turn it off, don't you think?” Simon asked with a smile. “Puts money in our pockets. I'm more than just a pretty face. Besides, the fans would be awfully pissed if we got back together and we didn't write new songs.”

Roger chuckled as his drink was set down in front of him, handing the bartender a few yen. “You're right. I oughta just shut up.”

Setting aside his pen and shoving the napkin into his jacket pocket, Simon turned his body toward Roger, elbow propped up on the bar. “We haven’t had a lot of one on one time yet, you and I. How are you doing?”

Setting his glass down after taking a swig of his drink, Roger smiled. “What? Frightened I’m going to leave again?”

“I’d be lying if I said no,” Simon replied, hoping the edge of humour was apparent enough in his voice.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Roger responded. “Honestly. This is where I want to be. I can’t speak for John or Andy, but it feels right. I just needed some time away, apparently.” Simon nodded, happy with the answer. Not that he was intending on grilling Roger or anything to that extent, but he wanted to ensure that everyone was still feeling good about what they were doing. The last thing that he wanted was for anything to turn sour. That was what had them all going their different ways all those years ago. “Hey,” Roger began, “since I’ve got you alone, can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer if it’s too personal.”

Simon’s interest was piqued, and he raised an eyebrow. “Well, when you lead in like that I’m tempted to answer anyway,” he chuckled. “Of course.”

“You and John, what happened there?” Roger asked.

“That _is_ personal,” Simon said, caught a little off guard. He gnawed on his bottom lip slightly, as he attempted to find the words. “Why do you ask?”

“Considering that Andy, Nick, and I spent the better part of two years doing our damndest to make sure that you two weren’t found out by anyone who didn’t need to know, I just want to know if our efforts were worth it,” Roger replied, pausing to take another drink. “I know you two aren’t together now, and that things went kind of sour for a while, I was there for those fights, and the walls were thin. But after that … were you two okay? Was it worth it?”

Simon rapped his fingers against the bar and inhaled deeply. No one had ever really asked him about he and John like that. Nick never asked questions unless it was absolutely necessary. Not because he didn’t care, but because he figured if it was worth knowing that John or Simon would tell him. The only other person he had ever really talked to in depth about his relationship with John had been Yasmin, and she cared not too know too many details. She only cared about his and John’s happiness, and that they were doing well. But no one had ever asked the questions that Roger had.

“Yeah,” Simon finally replied, looking back at Roger. “It was worth it. I wouldn’t trade what we had for anything in the world. But we were together after `83. We got back together in `87.” This revelation seemed to truly shock Roger, who’s eyes widened. “Naturally, we didn’t tell anyone who didn’t need to know. Sorry that you were out of the loop, but one less person to cover for us the better. We were together for a few years actually, until John started getting serious with Amanda. We haven’t been together since. But we’ve been okay. Nothing is strange. We just agreed that we were good together once, but in the grand scheme of things that we weren’t going to be good together forever. Our time in the sun had passed.”

“Really?” Roger asked, eyebrows raising. “I suppose it’s none of my business. But you two are still so clearly mad about one another.”

Furrowing his brow, Simon reached out and grabbed Roger’s arm. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“So, we’ve all gotten older and wiser, but you’re still as blockheaded as ever when it comes to matters of the heart and John Taylor,” Roger said, finger idly tracing along the rim of his glass. He turned his attention from his non-interesting drink to Simon’s scandalized looking expression. “Do you not see how that man looks at you? Do you not realize how you look at him?”

“I never was much good at putting on a mask,” Simon replied, realizing that he was liable to leave marks on Roger’s arm if he kept his grip that tight and loosened it slightly. “We agreed that it was a bad idea to pursue anything again. So, I’m not going to.”

“I’m not here to instigate anything,” Roger said, holding up his hands in defence. “I’m not here for anything really. You don’t have to tell me more than you’re willing. I was just curious about how things had panned out years ago. I didn’t realize that there was more to it.”

“As if I would be able to stay cross with you for longer than two minutes,” Simon said, offering Roger a fond smile in an attempt to diffuse the situation. “It’s okay, mate. You asked, I told. You offered insight. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Do you wish that I hadn’t?”

Simon didn’t answer right away, and turned in his chair to face the bar again. He picked up his drink, which had gone relatively untouched since he had sat down and took a swig from in. It had been easy to forget about John after he had left the band a few years ago. Not that Simon could be easily tempted most of the time, but when it came to John he’d basically put all of his energy into it when they’d not been together. Reminded himself that John was with someone else, that he and John’s time together had passed. Sure, they reminisced when they were together, but that was the end of it. Simon didn’t allow himself to be drawn into the feelings that he still harboured for John. Feelings, he was certain, would never go away.

Having John back was wonderful in a numerous amount of ways, just as it was to have Roger and Andy back. But there was plainly a personal aspect to having John back in the band that made Simon’s heart beat faster, one that he couldn’t quash no matter how hard he tried. He’d done a good job of ignoring John’s gazes since they’d ended their relationship back in the early 90’s, if only because he would’ve driven himself crazy if he hadn’t. John clearly wasn’t as circumspect as he thought that he was being, and Simon knew for a fact that he wasn’t.

It didn’t matter how he looked at John, or how John looked at him. Their relationship had ended a decade ago, and there was no sense in dredging it all up when they’d agreed not to.

Eventually, Simon sighed and looked back over at Roger with a sad smile. “I’m not sure.”

.     .     .

 **2005  
** _Portland_

The past few months had felt like a whirlwind, one which John hadn’t experienced since the early days with the band, when everything had been fresh and new. Though there was an air of familiarity to it, it felt new and exciting, just as it had all those years ago, starting out in Birmingham. On the surface they’d certainly changed - a couple of grey hairs, a few wrinkles - but little else seemed to be different. They’d already found their groove during rehearsals before the reunion tour, and now it seemed that they had never been apart. The new songs flowed as organically as their old hits, and the fans had been eating it all up. It was more than just a gimmick, it was more than just a reunion, it was a new beginning for all of them.

Being back on stage with Duran Duran was everything that John felt had been missing from his life for years. He was glad for having left for a little while, for having branched out to do his own thing, but it had never compared to what he had with his old friends. He had a whole new appreciation for it, his mind having been so clouded and muddled those last few years before he’d left. He was enjoying the music again, he was enjoying touring and being with the band again, it didn’t feel like the obligation that it had begun to feel like. John knew that with Simon. Nick, Roger, and Andy was where he belonged.

_You haven't got a clue.  
It's all that I can do to hide it ... _

John’s eyes flickered from the bright lights and the first few rows of the screaming crowd that he could see in front of them over to Simon, who was working the crowd into the frenzy that he did every performance. The new album had been well received, and the songs translated well into their live shows. John plucked away at his bass, watching as Simon began to make his way toward him. Tensing, John swallowed thickly and went about playing, attempting to act as if his heart didn’t feel as if it were in a vice and might explode from his chest.

 _There is nothing better,_  
_Than being with you,_  
_And I'm feeling so nice ..._

It had never been out of the ordinary to see signs out among the crowd, usually proclaiming their love of the band in one way or another. At recent shows, they’d seen signs with the word JoSi on them, which no one seemed to understand. It wasn’t until their show a few nights before in Vancouver when Simon had grabbed John by the arm during a break in between songs and declared, “It means John and Simon,” and then kissed him on the mouth, much to the appreciation of the crowd.

 _There is nowhere better,_  
_Than here with you,_  
_And it's feeling so nice …_

John had discovered long ago that it was a common fan fantasy that he and Simon had had some manner of affair. They didn’t need to know that it was true.

While the kiss in Vancouver had startled John, he had been able to shake it off, the shock of what had happened wearing off and culminating itself in John simply concentrating on playing the rest of the show. Subsequent shows however, Simon continued to grab John at some point in the evening, giving him a proper snog in front of thousands of people.

It was getting increasingly more difficult to shake it off and act as if it were just part of the show to him, his heart racing anytime that Simon drew closer to him, bracing himself for the inevitable kiss that had somehow become a part of their show. Reaching the end of _Nice_ , Simon stood next to John, an arm around him. John turned his head and smiled at him, and hoped that maybe Simon would forgo the kiss this time.

As the song ended, Simon grabbed John’s face between his hands and kissed him in an exaggerated fashion. And just as they had the previous nights, the crowd cheered with delight.

Evidently not.

.     .     .

John had managed to keep his temper in check until the band retired to their hotel, making idle chit chat in the hallway before beginning to filter off to their rooms one by one. Simon, John, and Andy remained, and finally during a lull in conversation, John cocked his head toward his hotel room and glanced at Simon.

“Charlie. A word?” he said, already moving toward his room.

“Sure,” Simon replied, turning to Andy. “Don’t raid your mini bar too much, all right. See you tomorrow.”

John heard Andy bid them a goodnight as he fumbled with his keycard to get into his room. His nerves were getting the better of him, and he suddenly missed the days of having keys for a hotel room instead of a piece of finicky plastic. Finally able to get the green light to blink at him, John opened the door and stepped inside, reaching for the lightswitch as Simon followed after him and closed the door behind them.

“Everything okay?” Simon asked, as John tossed the keycard and his wallet onto a nearby table.

“No,” John replied, turning to face Simon. “Everything is _not_ okay.”

John’s response clearly shook Simon, for the look on his face was nothing short of terror. John knew it was one of Simon’s biggest fears that this wouldn’t work out - that they would falter somewhere along the line, that one or many of them would leave, that it would be all over. John hadn’t meant for his response to come out sounding so hostile, and he regretted causing that look on Simon’s face.

“Shit. Charlie. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like _that_.”

“You coulda fooled me,” Simon said, the tension in his body relaxing slightly. “Fuckin’ hell, Johnny. What’s going on?”

John ran his fingers through his hair and looked at the floor for a moment, attempting to collect his thoughts, though the words that parted from his lips were a lot less eloquent that he had wanted them to be. Why was is that everything always sounded so much better in his head? “You’ve _got_ to stop kissing me.” Simon opened his mouth to speak, but John simply continued on. “On stage. In front of everyone. It’s … too much.” Once more, Simon went to say something, only to be interrupted by John again. “I know you’re just doing it because the fans are eating it up, but it’s hitting a little too close to home for me.”

After Simon figured John was finished speaking for a prolonged period of time, he took a step toward John, closing the gulf of distance between them. “You really think that’s the only reason why I’m kissing you?” Simon asked, raising an eyebrow. “To get the fans all riled up?”

“Well, yeah,” John replied after a moment, pursing his lips together and furrowing his brow. “Why else would you?”

“You’re a bloody idiot,” Simon replied, and John wasn’t sure to take immediate offense or not. “I haven’t exactly made it a secret how I feel about you, and you’ve made it no secret how you feel about me.”

“We agreed that we weren’t going to do that anymore,” John said softly, finding it increasingly difficult to find his voice as Simon drew nearer to him.

“Doesn’t mean I stopped feeling,” Simon told him. “I told you that I would always love you. I meant it. Having you back in the band, having you closer the past few years has made it a lot more difficult to act like I don’t still have feelings for you.”

John couldn’t deny that it had been equally difficult for him as well. Living on the other side of the world, working on his own material for over five years, away from Simon and the rest of the band, had made it easy to ignore that he was still head over heels crazy about his friend. No amount of distance would ever change how he felt, but the band being together again reminded him of just how much Simon meant to him. How much his presence invigorated and aroused him in more ways than simply the obvious. Simon was a shining beacon of light in his life, one which he always found himself coming back to in one way or another.

“It’s been damn near fifteen years,” John said, his eyes shifting from Simon’s eyes to his mouth which he would not deny he thought about kissing often. “Fifteen years since we were last together. Why can’t I get over you?”

“Do you want to?”

“Not especially.”

The two of them stood in the middle of John’s hotel room for a moment, looking at one another, waiting for the other to make a move - whether it be toward one another or toward the door. John had long ago given up any hope of he and Simon having the relationship that they once had. Too much had changed in fifteen years, and they’d both come to the same conclusion a few years ago that any incarnation of their relationship besides one of friendship would only serve to create problems. But that didn’t stop John from thinking about Simon every single day of his life, and wishing that things had been perhaps just a little bit different.

John’s tongue instinctively darted out to lick at his dry lips, as Simon appeared to be inching closer to him. John didn’t dare move, and wasn’t sure that he wanted to, whether that meant pulling away, or getting closer. Instead, he stood rooted at his spot on the floor. After what seemed like an eternity, Simon’s nose bumped against his, and John gasped quietly as Simon’s mouth found his, his eyelids fluttering shut.

The nights of onstage kisses hadn’t prepared John for having Simon’s lips pressed against his. Those had been over the top, exaggerated, reminding John a lot of their first kiss on that rooftop back in 1980 - accidental and with no real feeling other than playfulness. And aside from a chaste kiss shared in New York before the start of the new millennium amid some reflection, this hadn’t happened in over fifteen years. John thought it was a crime that to people who kissed one another so well hadn’t for so long.

“Simon,” John gasped, his hands reaching to grip at Simon’s arms.

Simon said nothing, but merely took the opportunity to lick his way into John’s mouth while his lips were parted. Tentatively, they relearned one another’s mouths, though even after fifteen years they hadn’t forgotten the taste of one another, hadn’t forgotten the warmth. Still gripping at Simon’s arms, John pushed him against the nearest wall, and Simon let out a startled gasp into John’s mouth. As John pressed him against the wall, Simon’s hands scrabbled at John’s back, working their way up under his shirt, touching his warm skin with his fingertips.

John groaned, arching his body toward Simon’s, teeth nipping at Simon’s lower lip. “What are we doing,” he rasped between kisses.

“I don’t know,” Simon whispered, one of his hands cupping John’s face. “I’m not about to complain about it.” After leaning into Simon’s touch, John began to still, and fervent and desperate kisses weren’t so fervent and desperate anymore. He eventually pulled back slightly, lips just barely grazing Simon’s. “What?” Simon asked, concern obvious in his voice and gaze. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“We can’t,” John replied, letting go of Simon’s arms, his own falling defeatedly to his sides. He shook his head, as if to emphasize his point, and took a step back. “We can’t do this.”

Simon was left standing there, back against the wall, devoid of the heat of John’s body which moments before had been pressed up against him. John began pacing as he had when they first entered the room, one hand on his hip, the other tangled in his own hair. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Simon push himself away from the wall and attempt to do something about his slightly disheveled appearance, smoothing his hands over the front of his shirt.

“Don’t kiss me on stage anymore,” John said finally, taking a deep breath and doing his best to act like he hadn’t just briefly made out with his best friend, his ex-lover. “I clearly can’t handle it.”

“That’s it?” Simon asked, spreading his arms away from his body. “We’re not going to actually talk about what just happened? You’re going to act like it didn’t? Fucks sake, John. I might’ve let you pull that shit when we were kids, but I’ll be damned if I will now.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” John said, turning to look at Simon. “We agreed that we weren’t going to do this again.”

“Yeah, and things change,” Simon said in a matter-of-fact kind of voice. “ _Clearly_ things have changed. If I want it, and you want it, then -”

“But see, that’s the thing, Simon,” John said sadly, tilting his head slightly. “I _don’t_ want it.” He let the words sink it, and hated to see them register on Simon’s face. “I mean, I do want it. But it would just complicate things right now, and we don’t need that. What we had was fantastic, and I love you, I always will. But it didn’t work out back then for a reason.”

“I believe the reason was your ex-wife,” Simon said, his eyebrows knotting together. “Before that we were good. Unless I’m remembering it differently.”

“No, you aren’t. It was good. It was really good,” John said, nodding his head a little. “But it was a different time, a different place. We were different. Everything was. I … don’t think we could have now what we had then. And believe me when I say it fuckin’ kills me. But what we have now? I like it. It’s not so complicated. I like that my life is such a bloody fuckin’ mess anymore.”

“It doesn’t have to be complicated though,” Simon said, taking a step toward John. “You’re making this into a much bigger deal than it needs to be, mate.”

“Maybe I am,” John said with an air of resignation in his voice. “But … Simon, I really don’t want to chance this. I love you. I do. But I don’t want what we used to have. We left those days behind.”

“Then why the bloody hell did you kiss me just now?” Simon asked, sounding justifiably frustrated and gesturing to the wall which he had just been so roughly pushed up against.

John looked at the wall, as if the event had been so long ago that looking at it would revive the memory. He smiled faintly, and returned his gaze to Simon’s. “C’mon, Charlie. Have you _seen_ you?”

Simon inhaled a deep breath through his nose and exhaled it slowly, unable to keep himself from smiling just a little in return. “Are we going to be okay? Are _you_ going to be okay?”

“We’re going to be fine,” John replied. “Just no more snogging me on stage. And yeah, I’m going to be okay. Are you?”

John knew that there were hundreds of conversations that they could, and should, have been having at that moment. But John also knew the last thing that Simon wanted was to jeopardize anything having to do with the band. In a way, John felt incredibly guilty of using that knowledge to manipulate Simon. He wasn’t doing it out of malice, but more out of necessity. There was nothing to truly be said. Though he loved Simon, he’d made up his mind long ago - their future was limited to being friends and bandmates, nothing more. He didn’t want to risk their friendship or the band, even if it meant not having Simon in the way that he truly wanted him. There was much more at stake than just their relationship now, and he wasn’t about to jeopardize any of it.

“I’m going to be cross with you for a day or two, but yes, I’ll be fine,” Simon replied, managing a small smile. “Look, I’m sorry if I came on too strongly. Now, and during the tour, I suppose. It’s just been so damn fantastic to have you next to me on stage again. And sometimes … I suppose I forget that things aren’t as they were, or that they won’t be as I want them.”

John smiled, putting his arms around Simon’s shoulders and drawing him into a hug. “We really aren’t ever going to get over what happened between us all those years ago, are we?”

“Probably not,” Simon replied, as he wrapped his arms around John’s body and hugged him close. John could hear the smile in his voice, and closed his eyes in contentment, just wanting to enjoy the moment. “Will that be all right? Don’t think we’ll drive one another crazy?”

“Oh, we will,” John said, pulling back from Simon. “But we’ll find other ways to do it.”

Simon chuckled and shook his head a little, before giving John a peck on the cheek and moving toward the door. John idly touched his cheek, and began to let himself relax, not taking his eyes off Simon as he opened the door and began to leave the room. He paused, and with his hand still on the door, turned toward John.

“Johnny?”

“Yeah, Charlie?”

“ _Nice_. It’s about you, y’know.”

John couldn’t help the slight blush that he felt rising to his cheeks. The last time Simon had written a song about him, it had been filled with lyrics such as “you’ve got to live with yourself the rest of your life,” and “always trying to control me, who do you think you are?” To be in his good graces again felt good.

John didn’t care how old he got, or how his relationship with Simon changed over the course of time, he would never tire of hearing or finding out that when Simon was singing his heart out that he was singing about him.

“Yeah. I know.”

.     .     .

 **2006  
** _Bucharest_

Simon had seen in coming for a few months, but still hadn’t entirely been prepared for the dawning of the realization that Andy would be leaving. The fascinating new thing sort of shine that had lingered for a number of years with the original lineup getting back together had begun to wear off. Once touring had become a bit more earnest, material for future albums being worked on, it was becoming increasingly obvious that Andy wasn’t in it for the long haul. It hadn’t been announced to the public yet, but with Andy’s obvious absence, the announcement that he wouldn’t be on the remainder of the tour, and bringing in someone else to play guitar, there was already mounting speculation.

Standing not far from the Grigore Antipa National Museum of Natural History, Simon responded to a text from Yasmin, asking how he was doing, attempting to convey that all things considered that he was doing okay. Unable to deal with being in the confines of his hotel room, Simon had opted for a walk instead, and neglected to inform anyone that he was leaving. He knew that he would probably get an earful, especially considering that they were due to be at soundcheck and he wouldn’t be where he was supposed to be, but at the time he simply didn’t care. He just wanted to go out.

Though he knew it foolish to think it, he couldn’t help the thought that Andy’s leaving was ultimately his fault. If he hadn’t attempted to orchestrate a reunion in the first place then he wouldn’t have left again. Irrational, yes. But that didn’t stop him from thinking it. The last thing that Simon wanted was the band to begin falling apart once more. Though everyone else had assured him that they weren’t going anywhere, the same had happened in the eighties. That hadn’t stopped them from leaving. Who was to say that Roger wouldn’t follow, or John, or even Nick? Simon didn’t think he could bear it if at this point in their careers that it would all end, after years of work to get it back to its original lustre.

It hadn’t been an easy year. Along with Andy’s impending departure, John’s father had passed away, leaving John in a pit of depression that he was struggling to remain out of. Most days he was fine, but there were a lot of days where he wasn’t, and no one could begrudge him for it, nor would they want to. It pained Simon to see his friend so consumed by his grief, knowing that aside from being there to support him that there wasn’t anything more that he could do. Sometimes it was enough, other times it clearly wasn’t. No one would have faulted him if he had fallen into old habits. Simon knew that he himself wouldn’t be so strong. But John was, and Simon was proud of him, even if he didn’t outright tell him. He wondered if maybe he should.

Simon huffed and pocketed his mobile, looking up at the building in front of him. Glancing at his watch, he debated whether or not he had time to go in and wander around the museum. He could stand to get lost for a little while, but with soundcheck being so close he knew that he shouldn’t risk it.

“I don’t think you’re meant to be out here,” a voice from behind him said.

“You were sent out to fetch me, I take it,” Simon said as he turned and watched John join him on the steps, hands in his pockets.

“No, actually,” John replied, standing a few steps down from Simon. “I went to your room to see how you were doing, and you weren’t there. Then I remembered that you tend to go wandering when there’s bad news involved. You did the same thing last time we found out that Andy was leaving. So, here we are.”

Simon chuckled a little, looking back up to the museum before looking back down to John. “Wander all over Bucharest before you ended up here?”

“Please. I don’t like you _that_ much,” John teased, ascending the last few steps to stand next to Simon. “This just happened to be the first place I came, in all honesty. But, I may have kept looking for you if you weren’t here. You’ve got a few people worried. Me included.”

“I’m fine,” Simon said with a fond smile, though it felt just a little forced.

John, picking up on this, pursed his lips together and reached out for Simon’s hand. An act which caught Simon just a little off guard. “C’mon. We’ll go to the venue. There’ll be no one else there yet.”

“Trying to get me alone?” Simon teased.

“Yes. But not for nefarious reasons. Get your head out of the gutter,” John replied, smiling just a little bit. “Everyone is positively buzzing about Andy right now, and I know you can’t handle it. We don’t even have to talk about it if you don’t want to. We can just sit there, and when you want to talk about it, we can.”

.     .     .

The Palace Hall was an old concert hall and gorgeous venue, that Simon was glad they would be playing in it later that evening. It seemed a crime that they hadn’t before. And while it wasn’t nearly as empty as John had alluded to it being, they found seats in the upper balcony, toward the back of the venue where they could sit, watching as roadies and crew toiled away on the stage below them.

True to his word, John didn’t say much of anything, he and Simon sitting in silence, Simon fidgeting as he collected his thoughts. Something that John knew he so very rarely got to do in one sitting, not with all the demands put on his time - husband, father, writer, performer, all of that left little time for one’s self. In the past, it would sometimes take weeks for Simon to come to terms with news such as Andy leaving the band. Simon recalled John seeing the emotional fallout of Roger leaving, and Andy having left the first time, and the realization dawned on him that John hadn’t seen what his own leaving the band almost ten years previous had caused. But he wasn’t about to bring that up. John didn’t need to know.

“I thought it was all going to work out this time,” Simon said, finally breaking the silence. John raised his eyebrows and looked over at Simon, turning his attention away from watching the crew on stage. “That it would be the five of us again, and that it would be that way for a while. Until we decided that we didn’t want to do this anymore.”

“You’re blaming yourself,” John said in a matter of fact way. “And there is absolutely no reason for you to. It wasn’t working out with Andy. You saw that. We all did. Even Andy. It’s better this way, and it’s going to get better. No one else is going anywhere.” Simon glanced over at John, and John smiled him. “You’re a bloody open book, Simon. One only needs to start turning the pages.”

“Heart on my sleeve, open book,” Simon repeated, managing a small smile. “Is there anything that you _don’t_ know about me?”

“After all these years? Are you kidding?” John answered, glancing back at the stage. “Don’t think so.”

Even with all that had gone on in John’s life over the past twelve months, he was still quick to offer comfort elsewhere when it was needed. Simon wasn’t certain that he would have been able to do the same, so riddled with grief. Feeling so despondent about Andy leaving seemed so inconsequential to what John was dealing with. Yet, Simon knew if he said as much, John would wave his hand and say something about what he felt not meaning that Simon couldn’t feel his own sadness about something else. What John was going through did not negate what Simon felt, nor would he want him to feel that he had to hide what was going through his mind. Which was just as well, considering that Simon apparently couldn’t keep anything from John.

Simon settled in his seat, filling a little more at ease. There was no way the feeling of guilt, the feeling that everything else was likely to fall apart would pass as quickly as he wanted to, but he took a small comfort in knowing that he wasn’t expected to get over it. “I do worry,” he said, looking down at his hands, “that someone else _will_ go. You can tell me that you’re not leaving again until you’re blue in the face, mate. It’s not going to stop me from wondering.”

“I don’t make a lot of promises anymore, Charlie,” John said, looking at Simon out of the corner of his eye, his eyes fixed on the stage. “I realized a long time ago that I’m dreadful at keeping them. But I will promise you this - I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you want me to. And even then, I’ll have to be dragged kicking and screaming. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than on the stage next to you, in the studio with you. Roger and Nick too.” He paused, sighing and turning in his seat a little so that he was facing Simon. “I missed out on so much. Not just after I left the band, but when I was high out of my fuckin’ tree. I wasn’t present for so much, and it fuckin’ burns me. This is almost like a second chance for me. I’m not going to fuck it up. Not so long as I have anything to say about it. And I’m sure as hell not going anywhere.”

Without so much as a second thought about it, Simon reached over and took one of John’s hands in his, lacing their fingers together. He held it tightly for a moment, before leaning in and kissing John on the cheek, then resting his forehead against John’s. “Thank you,” Simon murmured, closing his eyes and giving John’s hand a squeeze. “You’ve always told me that I have a way with words, but you do too, Johnny. You know just what to say sometimes.”

“Comes with knowing you for almost thirty years,” John said, before pulling away from Simon slightly. “You’ve rubbed off on me.”

“Multiple times, if I recall correctly.”

“Oh my god.”

.     .     .

 **2008  
** _Auckland_

The seasons in the southern hemisphere always threw John for a bit of a loop. By the time he finally remembered that it was backwards from what he knew and was more familiar with, he was ultimately getting ready to leave. It was a welcome change from the soggy months spent in London, and the still-cool with winter air in America. Though the temperature was beginning to drop and certainly wasn’t at its warmest in New Zealand, it was still warm enough to keep John content.

It was early in the morning, the sun just finishing cresting over the horizon, and yet John was already up, sitting on the balcony of his hotel room, mug of tepid tea balancing precariously on one of the armrests of his chair, legs splayed wide and laptop resting between them. He’d just finished a Skype chat with Gela, and was composing an email to Atlanta when he heard a somewhat distant rap on his hotel room door. Too early for his delivery of breakfast, and when the door opened he knew it was either Simon, Nick, or Roger, letting themselves in, also up far too early and perhaps a little bored.

“The coffee shop downstairs opens absurdly early, and for that I am thankful,” came Simon’s voice from inside John’s room. John heard him pacing, obviously looking for him, and was about to call out to him when Simon poked his head out the patio door. “Ah, this is where you’re hiding.”

“It’s not hiding if it’s my own hotel room,” John chuckled, as Simon stepped out onto the balcony and plunked down in the other chair, two takeaway cups in his hands. “One of those for me?”

“Fuck off. I still need two coffees a morning to adjust to this timezone,” Simon teased, before leaning over and handing John one of the cups. Before drawing his hand back, he grabbed the mug of tea on the armrest of John’s chair and set it down on the ground. “Of course one’s for you. I’m not about to barge into your room at dawn without gifts.” Simon settled into his chair while John popped the top off his cup of coffee, blowing on it in an attempt to cool it down before taking a sip. “You been up long?” Simon asked.

John shook his head, mouth still full of coffee. “Half an hour, maybe,” he replied. “You?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Simon replied, looking out toward the horizon.

John frowned, and wished that there was something that he could’ve said to alleviate the tension ebbing and flowing through Simon’s veins. Their latest album, _Red Carpet Massacre_ , hadn’t charted very well, debuting low and then falling lower in subsequent weeks. The recording of the album had been a disaster, the label wanting more of a pop sound, and encouraging the band to work with Timbaland. They’d been all for it, but the results coming out of the studio had been less than ideal. Everyone made the best of it, but in the end it hadn’t been what anyone had truly wanted.

It had been difficult to tour on an album that hadn’t been well received. While some fans seemed to enjoy the slight deviation in the sound they’d come to know and love from the band, critics were less than impressed. They’d never made music to impress the critics in the first place, but no one could deny that it still stung just a little bit. With all that had happened with Andy leaving a few years previous, and their latest efforts not doing so well, John knew that it was all weighing heavily on Simon’s mind, with their frontman’s mind wandering into the sort of territory that John tried his best to ensure it didn’t.

“The next one will be better,” John assured Simon, leaning forward slightly and closing his laptop. “We’ll make sure of it. We won’t let the label get involved so much, even though that’s usually easier said than done.”

“I know, I know,” Simon said, looking at John and waving him off. “It just would’ve been nice to get the album we wanted out of those sessions.”

“It’s not that bad,” John countered, taking another sip of his coffee. “The fans seem to like it.” Simon made a noise that John interpreted as agreement, and looked back out toward the skyline.

John mulled over telling Simon of the idea that had been brewing in his mind for some time. They were rarely afforded quiet moments as of late, with the whirlwind of writing, recording, touring, and then doing it all over again. It was something that he wouldn’t have felt right doing, not without telling everyone in the band first. He’d heard through the grapevine that Andy was doing something similar. But no one in the band seemed to pay much mind to what Andy was doing any more than what was required since he had left.

“Hey, I wanted to run something by you,” John said idly, waiting for Simon’s acknowledgement, which he received in the manner of a raised eyebrow. “I’m thinking of writing a book.”

“Not even going to wait for Andy’s to come out before taking on that challenge?” Simon asked with a grin, fidgeting with the lid on his coffee cup.

“Oh, we don’t need to wait for it to come out to know exactly what it’s going to be like,” John said, smiling at Simon. “No, I wanted to focus less on the band and the things that happened. I don’t want to drag anyone through the mud. I wanted to focus more on me, my life.”

“Now, who would want to read that?” Simon teased as he brought his coffee up to his lips. “You’ve lead such a dreadfully boring life.”

“It’s far too early for you to be so sarcastic,” John said, still smiling and biting at his bottom lip. “What do you think?”

“Of you writing a book? I think it’s brilliant,” Simon replied earnestly, a broad grin spreading across his face. “All kidding aside, I adore Andy, you know that. I think you certainly have some stories to tell. Ones that people will be really interested in.” Simon paused, looking down at his hands for a moment before looking up at John again. “I only have one request if you’re actually going to go through with this.”

“Sure,” John said, leaning forward slightly, of course more than willing to take any suggestions or listen to any requests from those closest to him.

“Precisely zero mention of my cock.”

“Now, who would want to read about that?”

.     .     .

 _I am here to tempt you, oh yeah._  
_Like you know I'm meant to, oh yeah._  
_Devil gonna tempt you, oh yeah._  
_How much do you want to?_

Their shows had become a rather eclectic mix in recent years, of new material which deviated from the old, and old material which if you listened very closely you could hear the entire crowd singing along. Newer material sometimes wasn’t as well received as the older songs, but that didn’t mean that no one enjoyed it. John needed to remind himself of that sometimes, when the energy of the crowd faltered when the opening chords of a song that wasn’t considered a classic reverberated throughout the venue.

 _Get back to London, comin’ undone,_  
_When you ride the underground._  
_Some misguidance, breakin’ silence,_  
_Got your body started now._

Simon was still flirtatious on stage, but he’d stopped outright snogging John during shows, which John was thankful for. Though he would never admit that he kind of missed that sort of attention. But it was better this way. Regardless, Simon always found new ways to make him almost giddy with anticipation. Again, not that he would ever admit it. It had been the kind of performance that fans had come to expect from them in the past twenty-eight years. To deviate from it would raise eyebrows, John was certain. Besides, it was just a bit of fun. Nothing like the teasing and flirting that they had done when they were together.

 _And you love the way you're moving,_  
_When you really got to prove it._  
_Finally, it's what you do,_  
_What it is you're turning on ._

His arm around John as he sang, Simon seemed to take a great deal of interest in watching John’s fingers as they plucked at the strings of his bass guitar. John tipped his head back, resting it against Simon’s shoulder, playing his instrument with vigorous intent, swaying his hips in a manner that had the audience in the first few rows screaming.

It was a dangerous game that they occasionally played, teasing one another, each eager to see if they could get the other to break. Though knowing their past, one might considering it malicious, but it was the furthest thing from it. Rather, it was part of their playful stage banter. But John would be remiss to admit that he didn’t derive a certain amount of power from the fact that he could reduce Simon to baser instincts still, after all those years. Simon was often the first to break, though John suspected it was because he didn’t often have the benefit of having an instrument strategically placed in front of him.

Simon pressed his nose against John’s neck, breath ghosting over his warm flesh. Goosebumps faltered over John’s skin, despite being the furthest thing from cool under the hot stage lights. In an instant, Simon was gone, off to torment Dom or Nick, and John lamented the loss of Simon’s body pressed against his.

Every once in a while, John forgot that he’d told Simon that he didn’t want what they once had. That it was best to be left in the past as fond memories. But as the years passed, he was becoming less and less certain. The freshness of being in the band again wearing off, the worry of it all going south a distant memory.

John had wanted to avoid complicating things when there had been a multitude of things to complicate. With life and the band seeming as solid and reliable more than they ever had before at any point in his life, John couldn’t help his changing mind. But the last thing that he wanted was to play with Simon’s heart as if it were a yo-yo. How cruel would it be of him to initiate something, only to have it all go up in flames once more?

The playful moments on stage, and a few moments stolen alone in a hotel room with nothing but his imagination would have to do.

.     .     .

The mornings after concerts were sometimes John’s favourite - especially if they didn’t have anywhere they immediately needed to be. He could sleep in a little, do some sightseeing, work on some new material, or just relax. The day after their show in Auckland, they had some time before they needed to be anywhere else. John was thankful for it, as he’d spent the entirety of the night after concert wide awake, frustratedly attempting to get more comfortable under the sheets.

Languishing in his bed, which felt far too big for one person, John poked his head out of the covers when he heard a knock on door. It was unlikely it was anyone else besides Simon, Nick, or Roger, so he flopped back down onto his bed. “Come in,” he called out.

The door opened slowly, and Nick peered into the room, and seeing that John was still under the covers, rolled his eyes as he stepped inside. “It’s nearly ten,” he said, closing the door behind him before wandering over to John’s bed. “Don’t you have any desire to get up and do anything today?”

“Not particularly,” John replied, sitting up and rubbing at one tired eye. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Hmm,” Nick hummed, sitting down on the edge of John’s bed, picking at the edge of a fingernail. “Burning the midnight oil?”

“No,” John replied, bringing his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them and then wrapping his arms around his legs. “Just. Something on my mind, I suppose.”

“Bloody hell. I’m going to need a drink for this, aren’t I? Please don’t make me day drink around a sober man,” Nick groaned, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Hey, you came in here of your own volition,” John pointed out, pursing his lips together. “And I’m not going to burden you with anything that you don’t want to be burdened with.”

“Please. My friend’s plights are hardly burdens,” Nick corrected, moving onto the bed, and scooting his way up so that he was sitting next to John. It was a picture that had been painted of the two of them many times before, since they were teenagers. John, beneath the covers, hair sticking every which way and reluctant to face the world for one reason or another. Nick, on top of the covers, dressed in whatever finery he’d chosen to wear that day, hair perfectly coiffed, face already made up. “We can just sit here if you want, or you can tell me what’s on your mind. Either way, I won’t leave until you ask me to.”

“Thanks,” John said softly, truly meaning it. He sighed loudly, and chewed on his bottom lip. “I’m wondering if I made a mistake.”

“Regarding what?” Nick asked, turning to face him. Upon seeing the look on John’s face, Nick’s eyebrows crept up to his hairline. “Oh. I see.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“You both are,” Nick replied, sighing and getting a bit more comfortable on the bed. “I’m not about to pry into your affairs, but you’ll have to give me a bit more detail. It’s been a while since I meddled in your love life.”

“Almost twenty years,” John interjected, smiling a little, attempting to piece together his thoughts into some form of coherency. “Before the reunion, we agreed that we weren’t going to act on our feelings, lest we jeopardize the future of the band. We didn’t know I’d come back, but we didn’t want to ruin the chances of it. We basically decided it would be one or the other - lovers or maybe bandmates.” John paused, turning one of his palms over and rubbing at a callous with his thumb. “We chose bandmates. Even though at the time it was a question mark. Then, we got the band back together, things became a little more difficult. It had been easy to ignore our feelings for one another when we weren’t together all the time, but once seeing each other became a constant, it became harder to push those feelings away.”

“Did anything happen?” Nick asked, watching John intently.

“We kissed,” John replied. “One night about three years ago? But I put a stop to it going any further than that. Everything was still so fragile. I didn’t want to risk mucking anything up.” John sighed, resting a cheek on his knees, head tilted toward Nick’s direction. “Three years later and nothing feels fragile anymore. Nothing is complicated, and nothing feels like a mess. The band is stable - _I’m_ stable. And I can’t help but wonder ‘what if.’”

“So, talk to him,” Nick said, gesturing to the wall as if Simon were on the other side of it. “You know how he feels about you. He’d do anything you asked of him.”

“That’s the problem,” John muttered. “I don’t want to play with his heart or his emotions. We’ve been going back and forth like this for almost thirty years. At one point does one say enough is enough? I know he’d leap at the chance to be with me again. But if something happened again, or I hurt him -”

“Who’s saying that you would?” Nick asked, slightly incredulous. “John, you two know each other too well to let that happen. And on top of that, do you think you’d both still feel this way about one another if either or you had the slightest inclination that it might not work out? I was right all of those years ago, you two go in circles when you’re not together. One pulls away, the other pines. And at some point, you both end up being in the same place.”

“Both pining?”

“Like bloody teenagers,” Nick replied, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “Look, I’m going to give you dreadful advice - listen to your own heart here, John. No one can tell you what to do. It’s been thirty years, only you know what it is that you want. But know this … whatever you decide, he’s going to be fine with it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he loves you. And what he cares about more than anything is your happiness.” John groaned and flopped back onto his bed, throwing his arm over his eyes. “Clearly you wanted advice that was a bit more substantial,” Nick added.

“You think?” John asked, dragging his hands over his face. With a defeated sigh, he let his arms fall next to him on the bed. “You’re right though.”

“Excellent. Now, can I persuade you to get up, stop feeling sorry for yourself, and come out with me?” Nick asked, getting up from the bed and smoothing his hands over his clothes to work any of the wrinkles out.

John threw the covers off of himself and got up slowly from the bed. “Only if you let me drink.”

“Not a chance in hell.”

.     .     .

 **2009  
** _London_

At the back of the studio, Simon sat on a couch, scribbling in his notebook as he listened to one of the tracks that Mark played for him. Nick had recently finished laying down the keyboard track, which meant that it was Simon’s turn to contribute by churning out some lyrics and subsequent vocals. While working with Timbaland on their previous album had been equal parts interesting and frustrating, having Mark Ronson at the helm of their thirteenth album was proving to be a breath of fresh air. The producer was interested in doing something a bit more _Rio_ -inspired with the band, which they had all figured would translate into a great album and great live songs. Besides, it would be nice to do sort of a retrospective sound after all the years that had passed since songs from _Rio_ had dominated the airwaves.

“I’m thinking we’ll get you in recording the vocals early next year,” Mark suggested, turning from the mixing board to look at Simon, who lifted his head. “We’re not nearly finished here anyway. I don’t want to do a rush job on any of these songs, and I’m sure that you don’t either. The other fellas still want to get in and lay down at least the beginnings of a few more tracks before the holidays.”

“Early next year sounds good to me,” Simon said, looking up from his writing. “Can you play that last one again for me?”

“Yeah, man. Of course,” Mark replied, swivelling in his chair back to the mixing board. “I think this is one of my favourites so far.”

Simon closed his eyes and set his pen down, taking a moment to absorb the music. The song started off with a melodic keyboard part, before being backed by Roger and John’s rhythm section, the bass in particular sounding deep, and reverberating throughout the studio.

It was a fantastic song, one that Simon was excited to provide the lyrics for, though he admittedly didn’t quite know where to begin with it.

.     .     .

Working and recording in London meant not being far from home, which given the vigor with which the band had been touring in recent years was a welcomed change of pace. Though John and Gela lived primarily in California, they also had a home in Dorset which they stayed in while John was recording with the band, or whenever they wanted to get away from America for a bit. It seemed a rare occasion that the entire band was in town, as well as significant others, so Yasmin had deemed it necessary to host something at the house.

“Nothing too extravagant,” Simon heard her saying to Gela on the phone. “Maybe just a few drinks? Virgins for John. And - wait. Am I on speaker? Tell that bugger to stop laughing. That is _not_ what I meant!”

The Le Bon home was already decorated for the holidays, festive trim adorning virtually every flat surface, as well as any space Amber, Saffron, and Tallulah deemed necessary, including the dogs. Yasmin had been adamant that it wasn’t a Christmas party, just a get together that happened to be _around_ Christmas.

It was somewhat of a relief be in the presence of people who hadn’t the slightest bit of interest in talking about music. Yasmin, Gela, Gisella, and Meredith seemed to steer the conversation that evening, of which their respective husbands or boyfriends were grateful. Naturally, of course when the four of them were together they could talk about things besides their music, or music in general, but it always swung back around to that topic. Having others present made it that much easier.

With the hour growing late, and Meredith feeling a little sleepy after too much wine (though Nick wasn’t much better off himself), people began to taper off. Roger and Gisella helped the wine-drunk into a cab, deciding to join them as they were headed in the same direction. Simon, Yasmin, and Gela remained in the sitting room, Yasmin regaling Gela with tales from her last trip to Greece, which she had gone on with the girls. Simon looked around and noticed the distinct lack of John present, and excused himself, uncurling himself from being wrapped around Yasmin, and began wandering the house.

Just when Simon was about to give up and assume that John had quietly slipped away without saying goodbye or taking Gela with him, Simon stumbled upon him in his office. Simon stood in the doorway for a moment, observing John as he stood looking at one of the walls. Without even craning his neck to see what John was looking at, Simon knew that John was looking at the records, certifications of their successes over the years. Double platinum for _Rio_ and _Seven and the Ragged Tiger,_ platinum for their first album, _Notorious_ , and _The Wedding Album_ , gold for _Big Thing_ , _Thank You_ , and _Astronaut_ , and silver for _Liberty_.

John stood in front of the wall, looking at the records, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a glass with the dregs of ice cubes and non-alcoholic cider remaining. Simon briefly wondered why John hadn’t bothered to turn any of the lights in the room on, then realized that he was glad that he hadn’t. The glow from the Christmas lights around the window was enough to illuminate the room, and the light caught the dramatic angles of John’s face, defining the already sharp cheekbones and straight nose. Simon had always thought that John was beautiful, since he first met him, but in moments like this, where he was unguarded was when he looked his most striking, and Simon wondered if he’d ever told him that.

Not wanting to startle John with his presence, Simon rapped his knuckles on the doorframe gently, before stepping inside his office. John turned his head and looked at him over his shoulder, smiling fondly as he watched Simon walk toward him.

“It’s been a hell of a ride so far hasn’t it, Charlie?” he asked, turning his attention to look back at the wall adorned with mementos of their career thus far.

“So far, yeah,” Simon replied, coming to stand next to John. “There’s still a lot more ride left yet.” He bumped his shoulder against John, causing him to stumble a little and then chuckle. “I was starting to think that you left without saying goodbye, and dumping your wife on us for the evening. Not that we don’t love her, we adore her. But if you leave her here for too long I can’t promise that Yaz won’t keep her.”

“Well, we’d all just have to be one, big, happy family then. Wouldn’t we?” John teased.

Simon smiled, turning his attention to the wall with John. His eyes settled on one of the photos from their first photoshoot. Truly a product of their time then, with big hair, eyes pronounced with eyeliner, shirts with ruffles that overpowered them. Looking back on it, of course they looked foolish, but who hadn’t then? Simon wouldn’t have traded looking like they had raided the women’s section at Selfridges (and they had) for anything in the world. His eyes settled on John in the picture, his hair dyed a bright red, and he smiled fondly.

“Look at this gawky fucker,” Simon said, pointing at John in the picture. “Who would’ve thought that just weeks before he had thick glasses and was named Nigel? Prettiest one in the bunch, even then, if you ask me. Don’t tell Nick.”

John scoffed, and rolled his eyes slightly. “Are you kidding me?” he asked. He reached out, and pointed at Simon in the picture. “This one was the most stunning. I can see why all the girls tossed their knickers at him on stage.”

Simon laughed, and looked from the picture to John. “Call me crazy, but I think those two look much better now.”

“They’re a little rougher around the edges,” John said, still looking at the photograph, lifting his glass to his lips and sucking an ice cube into his mouth. He looked at Simon out of the corner of his eye, and smiled fondly. “But I think I’m inclined to agree.”

Though John turned his attention back to the wall, Simon looked at John, smiling warmly and wishing that he had the courage to reach out and brush the strand of hair in front of John’s eye away from his face. Instead, he did nothing.

“I was in the studio with Mark today,” he said, apropos of nothing. “I listened to a couple of the tracks that you guys have done so far. They sound really good.”

“Yeah?” John asked, crunching at the ice in his mouth. “Well, I’m glad that you like them so far. You know, seeing as how you’re the one that has to put words to them.”

“I’ve written lyrics to songs I’ve hated before,” Simon said, taking a deep breath. “There was one that he played for me that I really liked, but I’m not sure where to go with it lyrically.”

“Which one was that?” John asked, turning toward Simon.

“Oh. Um, it was the one that went like this.”

Simon was about to hum the tune as best as he remembered it to John, until he remembered that he kept an acoustic guitar in the office. He moved away from John and over to the guitar propped up by his desk, grabbing it and slinging the strap over his shoulder. John moved away from looking at the photographs and awards on the wall, and wandered over to where Simon was standing, flopping down onto the leather couch next to him. Simon began strumming on the guitar, first to tune it, then playing the song he’d heard earlier in the studio, all the while John listened intently, nodding his head.

“I think it should be a love song,” John said, tilting his head slightly. “It’s melodic, haunting, and sounds a little unsure of itself. Kinda has a _Save a Prayer_ feel, don’t you think?”

“I suppose it does,” Simon mused, setting his guitar down eyes fixed on John, still lounging on the couch. “But, aren’t all of our songs love songs?”

“In hindsight, I suppose they are,” John replied, looking at the empty glass in his hand. There was silence for a moment in the dark room, and Simon wished that he had the courage to say what he truly wanted to say to John, wished that it wouldn’t be rebuked, wished that the two of them wanted the same things. He’d made peace with it long ago, but there were moments in which he wouldn’t deny that he wanted things to have played out just a little bit differently over the past few years. “How do you find the words still, after all this time? After decades of writing about love? How do you find different ways to basically say the same thing?”

Simon idly scratched at his chin, caught a little bit off guard by the question. He hadn’t ever really given much thought to it, his writing process, how after more than thirty years of writing poems and songs that he could find different ways to talk about love, about what was in his heart. Though, thinking about it, he supposed that he’d always had the most wonderful muses. Past girlfriends, his wife, his children, his friends, and of course, John. Simon felt his cheeks warm at the realization, and looked down at the floor, as he scuffed his toes against it.

“I guess I’ve just always had really good inspiration,” he replied, lifting his gaze, his eyes meeting John’s. “I don’t think it’s so much my ability to write about love, but the ability of the people around me to continually inspire me.”

The flush on the John’s cheeks did not escape him.

.     .     .

Days later, Simon called up John, Roger, Nick, and Dom wanting to get together to rehearse. He wanted to run by them all some of the lyrics that he had been working on, and make some tweaks to the melody and the backing music where necessary before heading back into the studio again in the coming months.

John was the last to roll into studio where they had been doing their rehearsing, letting out an exaggerated sigh upon seeing Simon, Roger, Nick, and Dom, laughing at something Nick had said.

“If that joke was at my expense, I’ll have your heads,” John teased, shrugging his jacket it off and tossing it onto a nearby chair.

“You would do well to try and be on time then,” Nick replied, arching an eyebrow as he leaned back in his chair.

“Oh, fuck off,” John said with a laugh, garnering some chuckles from everyone else in the room.

John grabbed one of his bass guitars, beginning to tune it as he took a seat in a nearby chair. Roger and Nick moved behind their instruments, while Dom grabbed an acoustic guitar and joined John in the chair next to him. Simon grabbed a music stand and a notebook, setting up across from John, then leafing through pages of lyrics in an attempt to find the song that he was looking for.

More than anything, Simon wanted the rehearsal to be over. His heart was beating so fast in his chest that he idly began to wonder if he was having a heart attack, and he could feel the bead of sweat rolling uncomfortably down along his spine. He inhaled deeply, and tried to exhale the same amount of air quietly, though he ultimately failed. So caught up in regulating his own breathing, he missed the glance between Nick and Roger. Nick furrowed his brow in question, and Roger had shrugged in response.

“You ready, John?” Nick asked, still glancing over at Roger who was getting comfortable behind his drumkit.

John gave Nick a thumbs up, who then began playing the song that Simon had asked him about a few days prior. John smiled as the music began to fill his ears, and ultimately the studio. The last time anyone had heard the song it had been lacking in lyrics, and there was the eager anticipation that filled the room every time that Simon came with lyrics ready. The rhythm section kicked in, and after a few moments, Simon’s limber voice began to fill the room.

 _So come the evening,_  
_I'm out on the dunes,_  
_Looking for a token, something to prove._  
_All I remember is more than a flame,_  
_In my fantasy, fire._

Before Simon had even begun singing, John was smiling. He had hoped that this was one of the songs that Simon had been able to draft up some lyrics for. It was becoming one of his favourites on the album. He had closed his eyes, letting himself feel the music, listening to the words that Simon was singing in his melodic voice, attempting to adjust how loud or how aggressively he played based on the emotion in his friend’s words.

 _Whatever I've done to receive,_  
_Whatever I need to redeem,_  
_Whatever you say,_  
_Even if I wait a lifetime._

With John’s eyes closed, Simon felt that his own could finally settle on him, attempting to gauge his reaction, wanting to see if he was truly paying attention. As Simon suspected might happen, John became a little less animated as he played, clearly concentrating on the lyrics. Knowing that this was the song that Simon had been struggling with, John was sure to listen closely. Simon hadn’t planned on it happening that way, but John would’ve had to hear the lyrics at some point, there wasn’t any getting away from that. Though, with him in the rehearsal room with everyone else, hearing the song for the first time, Simon found himself wondering if this had been the best way to introduce the song to John.

 _I know, I swear,_  
_If you leave a light on, if you leave a light on for me,_  
_I'll come there._  
_You can leave a light on for me._

A few feet away from him, John was barely playing his bass, instead listening to the song as if he were hearing it for the first time, which Simon supposed he was. With lyrics, it was a different song than it had started off as. Simon bit at his bottom lip, watching as John bobbed his head slightly in time with the music. Though his fingers barely touched the strings, he instinctively made a motion for them, as if it were impossible for him to hear music without adding something to it.

The rest of the song, John seemed to merely listen, eyes still closed, fingers still reaching for chords that he ultimately would not play. When the song drew to a close, Simon let out a breath he hadn’t realized that he’d been holding, and John slowly opened his eyes.

“Did you forget how to play?” Dom teased, reaching over and playfully jabbing John in the shoulder.

“No,” John replied tersely, standing up and moving to then take off the guitar strapped over his body. “I just wanted to listen to it first, get a feel for it. We should run through it again, though. Maybe after a short break. I think I need to tweak the bass part. What we recorded doesn’t feel right now that I’ve heard lyrics.”

“Back here in twenty?” Dom asked, reaching for the pack of cigarettes inside his coat pocket as he moved to stand up as well. Nick turned toward Roger, and the two of them looked at Simon, who nodded. Whether it was confirmation that it worked for him, or an indication that they should leave, it didn’t matter.

“Twenty sounds good,” Nick replied, eyes still fixed on Simon.

Nick breathed a sigh of relief once Dom had set his guitar down and left the room. Roger, who had made his way across the room to Simon, leaned in a little closer to him, though his eyes were locked on John, who appeared agitated. “Should we go too?”

“Probably,” Simon replied, running his fingers through his hair.

Roger and Nick said nothing, taking their leave of the room. With nothing and no one separating John and Simon but the space between them, Simon waited to see who would make the first move. As luck would have it, it was John, who strode over to him, and stood rooted a few paces away, eyes on Simon. It took him a moment to muster the courage to make eye contact, already having a vague idea of how this conversation was about to go.

“Me,” John said softly, walking up to the chair that Simon occupied. “It’s about me, isn’t it?”

“A lot of them are, John,” Simon replied, rubbing at his chin. He debated whether or not he should stand, and opted for sitting instead, as John loomed over him. “What makes this one any different?”

“It’s the way the words flow. This isn’t like anything you’ve ever written about me before. This isn’t playful flirting in the form of lyrics, this isn’t you subtly telling the world that you have feelings for me or that something is going on between us, this isn’t you getting your anger out about something I’ve done, like leaving. This is you saying that you’ll wait for me forever,” John replied.

“Because I will,” Simon said, looking up at John. “I told you years ago that I would, and that hasn’t changed. If you came to me tomorrow and told me you wanted to give us a try one more time, I would be there.”

John sighed, looking from Simon to the wall, at nothing in particular, just needing to shift his gaze from Simon’s blue eyes. Simon watched the rise and fall of John’s chest, watching as his jaw clicked, clearly searching for the right words. “I’m not going to tell you that tomorrow,” John said after a moment, and Simon felt his heart sink, though he had known that would likely be the outcome of this conversation. “But, I will tell you today.”

“Tell me what?” Simon asked, furrowing his brow.

“That I’ve spent the last eighteen years being a bloody fool,” John replied, a fire in his voice that Simon couldn’t recall having ever heard before. “And that I’m hoping with every fibre of my body that you mean all of the things that you say in song but can never seem to put into words lately.”

“John -”

“Is it what you truly want?” John asked. “Or are you just holding onto the past and not wanting to let go? Do you actually want to try to build something together again, or is it just the memories of what we used to be that you want to hold onto?” John pursed his lips together tightly, challenging Simon’s gaze. “I’m telling you that I want to be with you, if you’ll have me.”

Simon all but bolted up from his chair, and found himself standing in front of John, at a loss for words. He had expected he and John to have one of their talks, that they were prone to once in a while, where they reminisced about days gone by, and how they both wished that things could be a little different. Simon had gotten so used to not having John, that the sudden prospect of actually, truly having him had him at a loss for words.

“John,” Simon began, still trying to find his voice, find the words. “I don’t want for much in this life. How lucky am I that I get to play music with my brothers, that I have my girls, that I have the life that’s been given to me? So bloody lucky. The only thing that I’ve ever wanted, that I haven’t been able to have for years is _you_.”

“Could you ever forgive me?” John asked, his voice wavering slightly as Simon reached out and gripped him by the arms.

“What in the bloody hell for?” Simon asked in a hushed whisper.

“For all of the wasted years,” John replied. “I’ve held your heart in my hand for so long, and did nothing with it, because I was too scared, too frightened of fucking it all up again.”

“You had your reasons,” Simon assured him, rubbing at John’s arms, doing his best to comfort him.

“Not for a while,” John added, his eyes downcast. “I’ve been pushing you away when I had no reason to. All you ever did was love me, and I didn’t want your love because of what? Because I was worried about the future? Fuck the future. I don’t want to be part of any future that doesn’t include you in it. That doesn’t include you in it in the way that I really and truly want you to be.”

Simon bit down hard on his bottom lip, unable to believe the words that he was hearing. It had been eighteen years since they had been together, and yet he’d thought about the few years that they had been truly together, truly happy every day of his life since. He had hoped that there might come a day when he and John would rekindle their romance, but in recent years he certainly hadn’t thought that it might ever happen again. And now, with John standing in front of him, telling him in no uncertain terms that he wanted to be with him again, Simon wondered how exactly he was supposed to bridge the gap between what they currently were, and what they wanted to be.

“I don’t want to fuck this up,” Simon murmured. He pressed his forehead against John’s, and the other man gasped softly in surprise, relishing in the contact, letting his eyelids slip closed for a moment. Simon was sure that he felt John shudder, but he said nothing of it.

“You won’t,” John said. He opened his eyes, looking into Simon’s. “ _We_ won’t. And if we do, so what. We’ll figure it out. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life not knowing, wondering what if. How many chances have you given me? I don’t think I’m likely to get another.”

“I’d give chance after chance, John.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

Simon decided that he’d had enough of talking, and still gripping John by his arms, leaned in and kissed him with bruising intensity. John breathed against Simon’s mouth, caught somewhat off guard by the kiss, though he relaxed in Simon’s hold, the tension ebbing out of his body, limbs becoming almost fluid. Simon’s heart was liable to burst from his chest, but this time from joy and relief instead of the crushing weight of nerves he’d felt earlier.

Though they had kissed a few years previous, in John’s hotel room before John ultimately told Simon not to kiss him on stage anymore, it did not compare. That had been adrenaline, this was love. John wrapped his arms around Simon’s torso, hauling him close, clutching to him tightly as if he wasn’t ever going to let him go. It worked just as well for Simon, who had no intention of ever letting go of John again for as long as they both lived.

Eventually, they both came up for air, breath harsh, hands trembling. John bumped his nose against Simon’s, sighing as he delivered a quick peck against his lips. One of Simon’s hands found its way into John’s hair, smoothing it back from his face. He relished in the sight of John’s smile, as John tilted his face into the touch, having not been on the receiving end of that particular brand of John’s grin in far too long.

“I love you, Johnny,” Simon murmured.

“I love you too.”

“Smoke break is almost over,” Simon said softly, thumb brushing along John’s cheek. “We should probably think about taking at least a few steps away from one another.”

“Right,” John said, nodding and pressing one last kiss to Simon’s cheek before releasing Simon from his grip and taking a step back. He leaned against a nearby couch and ran a hand through his disheveled hair, eyes still fixed on Simon. Eventually, he began laughing, and Simon couldn’t help but follow suit, the two of them feeling so incredibly joyous.

The door opened, Roger and Nick wandering back in. Simon and John quieted down slightly, and both turned to watch their two friends and bandmates walk in.

“Where’d you two get off to?” Simon asked, as Nick sat back down in the chair he’d been occupying before they’d left.

“Returning phone calls on my end. I think Rog was inhaling secondhand smoke from Dom,” Nick replied, casting a look at Roger.

Roger, on the other hand, was looking at John as if trying to piece something together. When John bowed his head slightly, Roger then looked to Simon, who was carrying about him an air of being far too pleased with himself. Sighing, Roger nudged at Nick with his elbow. Scoffing at the abrupt and quickly not at all wanted contact, Nick was about to ask what on earth Roger was doing, before Roger tilted his head toward Simon.

Following Roger’s gaze, Nick then rolled his eyes and leaned back into his chair, reaching into the back pocket of his trousers and pulling out his wallet.

Simon would have been offended by the sight of Nick handing over a few pound notes to Roger if John hadn’t burst out laughing.

“There,” Nick said with an air of finality as Roger shoved the notes into his pocket. “Now that you two have made up and Roger has profited from it, can we please get back to the business at hand?”

“How long were you betting on this?” John asked, finally able to stifle his laughter.

“Long enough,” Roger replied. “All kidding aside, we’re just glad that you two have figured out whatever it was that you needed to figure out. Just promise us one thing.”

“We’ll take it into consideration,” Simon replied, unconsciously reaching out his hand toward John, who responded in kind, their fingers brushing together.

“Please, for the love of God, be a little bit more circumspect and discreet this time,” Nick said, with a slight roll of his eyes. “We won’t tell a soul, so long as we’re not treated to the sight of you doing whatever it is that you’re doing.”

“I don’t think that’s an unfair thing to ask,” John said, looking over at Simon and smiling. “Do you?”

Simon shook his head in response, agreeing with John, just as the door to the room opened, Dom walking in, completely oblivious as to what had just occurred. John cast a knowing look at Simon while Roger and Nick pretended to be oblivious.

To the casual observer, it seemed that nothing had happened. Dom grabbed his guitar and took his place back in his chair, looking up at the other four, before asking, “What? You’re all acting strange.”

“Nothing,” Nick replied, moving toward his keyboard and attempting to deflect any further questions that Dom may have had. “Simon and John were just arguing about the bass part of that song. Like Simon knows a bloody thing about bass.”

“Shut up,” Simon laughed, Dom appearing to be satisfied with Nick’s response. He figured that he and John would tell Dom eventually, and he momentarily felt bad for having never told Warren. But there wasn’t any need to then, he could wait a while before having a bombshell dropped on him.

The only indication that anything had changed was the alleviation of tension between Simon and John, and even then, it was only if you had known that it had been there to begin with. Simon and John certainly felt it, Roger and Nick did too. As Roger took a page from Dom and Nick, and moved toward his instrument in the name of continuing to rehearse, Simon and John stood next to one another, hearts beating a mile a minute, trying to quell the excitement that electrified the air between them.

While Nick and Roger distracted Dom with conversation, John moved just a tiny bit closer to Simon, the pinkie on his left hand extending and brushing along the pinkie of Simon’s right.

Simon smiled.


End file.
